


Internal Breach

by SourCherryBlossom



Category: Homeland
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:14:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3062270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SourCherryBlossom/pseuds/SourCherryBlossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set Season 4, Episode 8 "Halfway to a donut". Missing scene. How did Carrie get back to the Embassy, after checking into the hospital for tampered meds? A deeper look into the obsessive thoughts of Peter Quinn. Begins canon, and diverts in chapter 2.  Rated M for language and smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [isadora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isadora/gifts).



Carrie sat up in the hospital bed, wearing a standard issue gown, feeling wan and pale, and more than a little weak. But at least she was lucid. Her memories of the last 24 hours were spotty at best, but what she could remember was horrifying. A hallway in a hospital - fighting. A night street in Islamabad – shooting. Christ, had any of it really happened? Or all of it? And then struggling to free herself, screaming and struggling. Then, a clear image of Brody, a doppelganger back from the dead to torture her for her betrayal. She was emotionally savaged. She hadn't slept, or eaten. But as the drugs worked their way out of her system, at least she was starting to think straight.

A nurse entered, handing Carrie a brown prescription bottle. "Your new meds," the woman said.

"Thank you," she said, with a sigh. A blood sample had been taken, and analysis was being fast-tracked. But she already knew: someone had switched out her medication, in an attempt to embarrass her, discredit her, maybe even kill her. Carrie shuddered.

Walking so quickly that he brought a breeze in with him, Peter Quinn entered Carrie's hospital room.

"Carrie, where have you been? What happened?" he said, his brow furrowed with worry.

"We have a breach here at the embassy," she said, voice filled with revulsion.

"What?" he barked. Always so defensive of her, he was already looking for someone to shoot.

"Someone switched out my meds," she said, grimly. "I need to brief Lockhart."

Quinn looked steadily at her, noting her ashen pallor, the dark circles under her eyes. "OK," he said. "When you get released, I'll take you home."

She said nothing more, but nodded. Feeling intrusive, Peter showed himself out into the hallway, and sat in a chair just outside the room. Like her very own armed guard, he thought. But where the fuck had she been last night? He had texted twice and eventually called four times, but she had not answered. He should have her chipped like a pet dog, he thought. That way he could GPS her if she went out at night. Her safety was paramount, though the precise reason for this was not clear in his mind. At least not while he was awake.

Half an hour passed while Quinn cooled his heels in the hospital hallway. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, listening. Nurses and eventually a doctor came and went, and in the exam room, he heard low voices, murmurs, and eventually a shuffling sound. He turned to the door to see Carrie emerging, dressed in rumpled street clothes- the same brown suit he had seen her in yesterday. Not that he was in the habit of memorizing women's clothing habits, but with her, he kept a sharp eye. In her case, it was an indicator of wellness, whether or not she was caring for herself.

"I can go," she said briefly, leaning on the door. She had no purse or briefcase, and her hands, hanging open at her sides loosely, somehow increased the sense of pathos he felt about her. "They want me to use a wheelchair, Quinn," she said.

He stood up. "Can you walk okay?" he asked reasonably.

She shrugged. "I think so. I got here somehow," she said. That frightened him too,

"Then you don't need one. Just walk with me," he said. He came around next to her, and extended a crooked elbow. He kept her on his left: he wanted his gun hand free. Habits.

He let her set the pace, and they walked slowly towards the hospital entrance. She walked with her head down, a beaten appearance that he didn't care for at all.

  
"Should we stop somewhere, get you something to eat?" he asked.

"No," she said. "I have no appetite. And we need to brief Lockhart."

He almost grumbled aloud. "Low blood sugar isn't helping your mood," he said.

They were moving past the hallway that led to the hospital cafeteria. Quinn turned down that hallway. Carrie hadn't even looked up, to notice that he'd taken her somewhere other than the main lobby. Yet another sign of disorientation. Or was it simply that she trusted him?

He led her to a hallway chair, indicated it, pointing. "Sit," he said. It was a testament to how beaten she was that she simply followed his orders. The fault line in his heart opened a little. "Wait here."

Quinn dashed through the hospital cafeteria, purchased a bottled orange juice, and hurried back to Carrie. She hadn't moved. "OK, come on," he urged.

They continued their shuffle towards the main entrance, and Quinn led her on to the G-car he was driving, a black SUV. Opening the passenger door, he held Carrie's hand as she got in, waited to see if she'd fasten her own safety belt. When she did, he handed her the juice. "Drink this," he said, in a tone of voice that brooked no protest.

She took a few meek sips on their way back to the Embassy. Quinn kept stealing glances at her out of the corner of his eyes. She still hadn't spoken. "The whole thing," he urged. She made an effort to swallow more of the sugary drink.

"This is fucked up," she said, finally.

"Yes, it fucking well is," his wrath arising again. "I'm sweeping your rooms today, and changing your locks. Until I'm done, you stay in public areas," Quinn ordered.

She said nothing, but nodded. Finishing the juice, she tossed the bottle onto the floor. "I had a very bad night," she said. "I can't remember most of it. But the things I do remember…" she stopped there, her voice diminishing.

He squirmed, internally. Where the fuck had she been last night? And with whom? He believed that she couldn't remember, but the lack of information was infuriating. He gripped the steering wheel like he could squeeze the answers out of it.

"You're safe now," was all he could think to say.

They arrived at the Embassy, and Quinn parked the car in the underground. He helped Carrie out of the car, and offered her his arm again. In the parking garage, she held it, squeezing it, like she was afraid of letting go. But when they got within sight of the Embassy rear entrance, she released him.

"You were right," she offered. "I needed that. I feel better."

"Good," Quinn said briefly.

They passed through security quickly, since Carrie didn't even have a bag to search. "So you know where Lockhart is?" Carrie asked.

"Um, with the Ambassador, I think," Quinn said. They headed up to the intel suites, on their way to the secure room.

"Pry him away discreetly," Carrie said. "I need you, him and me in the secure room as soon as possible."

Quinn walked Carrie as far as the door to the secure room, still hovering. He waited until she was seated.

"Sure you're okay?" he asked, trying to be brusque and detached.

She looked at Quinn, thoughtfully. "Yeah, I'm okay now," she said.

He turned without further comment and left her there to go to the Ambassadorial Suites.

Fucking mother hen, he said to himself. But he couldn't help it. His behavior toward Carrie was something he didn't seem to have control over. Not his dedicated effort to assist her and keep her safe during the day, nor the protracted, technicolor fantasies he had about her at night.

He was already making a mental list of things to do to re-secure her quarters. Re-key locks, sweep for bugs, check windows for signs of access. The list went on. The safest thing, Quinn thought, would be to just move her into my quarters. The thought aroused a black excitement in his loins, which he tried to force back down.

Opening the door to Martha's Boyd's inner office, he saw Lockhart seated in one of the wing chairs. He kept his tone light, and said, "Excuse me, I'm sorry, Ambassador. But I need to borrow the Director for a bit."

Lockhart stood up. "Did you find Mathison?" he said quietly, as they left Boyd's office together.

"Yeah. She needs us," he said.

Needs  _me_ , his mind insisted.

They headed back to the secure room.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun had long since set in Islamabad when Carrie finally returned to her quarters, exhausted, and attempted to open the door to her room. The lock didn't budge, so she removed the key, frowning down at her keyring. Momentarily, she heard the lock click and the door opened. Quinn, of course. He opened the door all the way, and stepped back to admit her, then locked it behind them.

"I see you've been busy," she said, sighing, and fell onto the couch. Her hand went up to massage her temples. What a fucking day.

"Yeah," he said, "I'm getting there." Quinn walked back over to the window, squatting on one knee, and picking up a screwdriver, continued to install something.

"Window alarm?" Carrie asked.

"Yes," he said, "the best I could find."

She didn't want to heap derision on his efforts, since he had obviously been here for several hours – her phone had been switched out, she noticed that. And probably plenty of other details, to complete the sweep, set their minds at ease, and provide security to her quarters again. But the window alarms are a little much, she thought.

"You swept for bugs?" she asked.

"Complete sweep. Didn't find any," Quinn responded.

"Quinn, don't you think it's overkill?" she asked finally, waiting to see if he understood.

"How do you mean," he intoned, looking at his work.

"Well, this was an internal breach," she explained. "Whoever came in, came through the door using a copy of my key." She let a moment pass, then completed the thought. "I mean, we're not really expecting anyone to come in the windows, right?"

He turned and looked at her, and something in the eye contact made her stomach wobble. His intensity? His stare? Where he was looking, at her legs, or stomach, not at her face? His eyes swung back up to meet hers. "You never know," he said.

"Seriously? We're inside the Embassy campus, Quinn. Who the fuck is going to shimmy up the side of a building to come into my room?"

He said nothing, just set the screwdriver down. "I need to run a few tests, then we'll enable the system when you go to bed."

"I'm fucking exhausted," she said, "and I don't want a goddamn alarm waking me up every time a pigeon shits on the ledge outside my windows."

"The alarm output is in my rooms," Quinn said. She looked at him, blinking, for a moment. Then sighed. It probably wasn't worth protesting, he was almost done, and she was just too fucking tired.

"Alright. Listen, I'm shattered, I need to wash up," she said. Going into the adjoining bedroom, she emerged with a ball of gray fabric in her arms, and as Quinn tidied up the boxes, plastic bags and tools that he had used to do the install, Carrie sauntered across the living room to the bathroom, and shut herself in.

While she washed up and took her meds, Quinn went back and forth from his apartment to hers, initiating the system, making sure it all worked. Satisfied, he locked his place up and came back to Carrie's apartment. She was sitting on the couch again, now dressed in a knee-length flowing gray silk nightgown, which shone slickly in the lamplight. Probably with nothing underneath it, he thought, and felt himself twitch. In her hand spun the stem of a crystal wineglass, half-full of Chardonnay.

"You done?" she asked, just a trifle impatiently.

"You don't have your new key yet," he said. He went to the kitchen counter where she had dropped her keyring, and brought it to her. He confirmed which key was her old apartment key, removed it, and sat across from her on the ottoman, while he put the new one on. In this seated position, there was only about 2 feet between their knees, and at this distance, Quinn picked up on a light fragrance. He didn't know what she had done in that bathroom for the last ten minutes – though he certainly would be picturing it later – whatever it was, she certainly smelled fucking good.

"You keep one?" she asked.

"You want me to?" he asked, only his eyes moving to look up at her, hoping he knew the answer.

"I do want you to. I feel safer that way," she explained simply. It was a normal, friendly statement. They both had keys to each other's apartments, though she hardly ever came to his place. But something about the way she said it made his skin break out in goosebumps. He swallowed, looking down again at the soft, white skin of her legs as they emerged from the nightgown, covetous of her lush beauty,

"I'm glad," he said, simply, when he could talk again. He stood to leave.

"Well, I should…" Quinn started, stretching his back.

"You should open my fridge and have some of this," Carrie countered, before he could excuse himself. She bent her knees and tucked her legs under her, showing a heartbreaking flash of thigh as she did so. "Unless you're too tired. I'm exhausted, but I'm still too fucked to sleep," she said, the slightest quiver in her voice.

Quinn said nothing, not trusting himself to say anything coherent, after that look at her thigh, which had started a black train of carnal images moving through his head. He went into the kitchen and helped himself to a glass, then came back and sat down on the ottoman again.

Carrie stared at the wine, swirling it in the glass. "Last night," she said, sounding both frightened and sick, "Last night something really fucking awful happened to me, Quinn."

He didn't know how much she remembered. He was almost afraid to hear. He felt his stomach drop, and took a healthy slug of the wine. "What happened?"

"Well, first, I went to the hospital. I was looking for one of Aayan's contacts, and then… I thought I saw you." she said. He heard tears in her voice. "You weren't there, right? Because at this point I don't even know what's fucking real," she finished, upset.

"No, I wasn't," he said. I looked for you all night, he wanted to say, I didn't sleep. He kept it to himself.

"I guess I was hallucinating. Whatever that shit was, it gave me terrible hallucinations," she said. She finished the wine, set the glass down, and scrubbed at her face with both hands. "I thought I saw you, you confronted me and then I escaped from you. Then, I thought I was in a city street, and I shot a cop," she said. Her hands went to her temples, and pressed there, eyes closed.

"Jesus, Carrie," Quinn said, concerned.

"Yeah, great, huh? As it turns out, I was out in the street, trying to shoot with my fingers. The cops picked me up and put me in a straightjacket," she said. At the mention of "straightjacket," Quinn's heart started to pound. He wanted to smash the walls, to find the fuckers that had collected her off the street, had bound her and carted her off, and beat the living shit out of them. He gritted his teeth.

"So you spent the night in jail? Why didn't you tell me any of this earlier?" He became louder, more exasperated. It was worse than he had thought.

"No, not jail. I spent the night at Aasar Khan's house, hallucinating that he was Brody," she said, utterly vanquished by the day. "And I didn't tell you earlier because there was no time. I guess really, there was no harm done," she tried to rationalize. "But fuck, I was fucking insane." She took a deep hitching breath, and let it out, in something like a sob. Quinn was coldly enraged. Carrie had been victimized, not just by the asshole who switched her drugs, but by Khan as well.

"Carrie!" he exploded. " _Aasar Khan_? What the fuck was he thinking, why didn't he call the embassy, and have you brought in? Or take you to the hospital?"

"That probably had something to do with the fact that I thought Khan was Brody, and sat in his lap crying most of the night," she said, sounding ashamed. Carrie leaned on the arm of the couch, and put her hand back over her eyes. "You see why I'm having trouble processing this?" she said, horribly stressed. "I wanted to tell you, but I don't know what to do, I don't know if there's anything  _to_  do, it's all just so fucking weird," she said. Now she was close to tears, and he was ready to setup a sniper nest outside Aasar Khan's house. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Yes," Quinn said, "yes, it is fucking weird. But Carrie, you were drugged," he said. "Someone tried to fucking poison you. Nothing that happened is your fault," he said. He felt guiltier than ever that she had been out without him, unprotected, drugged and wandering the streets. Underneath, though, boiled a proprietary feeling, a desire to not just protect Carrie but keep her for himself, a desire for possession that stoked his darkest night-fantasies and haunted his dreams. How fucking dare anyone else touch her, especially while she was ill? If he saw Aasar Khan again, he'd be tempted to kill him, break his nose and pierce the fragments into his brain, with one punch. He had done it before.

She shook her head. "I guess you're right," she said. She took a deep, shuddery breath in, and blew it out. Quinn finished his wine in a swift gulp. "I've had all I can take for one day," she sighed. Now she was really close to tears, and he didn't think he could stand it if she cried, because if she did, he would not be able to stop himself from crossing the distance between them, taking her in his arms and kissing the tears off her cheeks. He was inflamed, he was close to the edge, and she, so distraught, didn't even notice.

"Take a deep breath," he said, trying to at least project cool. "If you don't think there are actions to be taken, then, put it behind you. Like I said, it wasn't your fault." He was still incensed at the events, at the poisoner and at Khan, but he tried to keep calm so she would feel better. He took her wineglass and his, and put them in the kitchen sink. He came back and sat next to Carrie on the couch, who still had her hand over her eyes, and hadn't moved. He breathed in her scent.

"You should get some sleep," he said.

"Yeah," she said. "I guess." Her head dropped down on the arm of the couch, dejectedly, and she closed her eyes.

"Let me just do a final check, set up the system," he said. He was close, so very close, to touching her, comforting her. But at this point, he had no idea if it would be welcome, or make her feel more victimized. He got up.

It took about ten minutes for Quinn to confirm his new alarm system was functional. He set it, and went back to Carrie's apartment. In that amount of time, she had fallen asleep on the couch, head on her arm, in the same curled-up position he left her in. Pity and adoration squeezed his heart, the pain of desiring her almost impossible to bear. For a moment, he just stood in the locked apartment, watching her sleep.

Then Quinn went into the bedroom and turned down the bedcovers. Walking back to Carrie, he bent over, and carefully lifted her sleeping form off the couch. Feeling like a player in one of his own fantasies, he carried her in his arms to her bed. She was a feather, she weighed nothing. And the gown was as silky as he'd thought it was. As he walked, her head rolled and lay against his chest. Her lips were so close, her lashes, her face, so beautiful in repose. He developed an an enormous, painfully hard erection, that he knew would torment him until he took care of it himself. After being this close to her, it might take 2 or 3 sessions to discharge his frenzy.

He laid her gently down, head on the pillow. She turned on her side, comfortably. An urge seized him, briefly, a compulsion to lift her gown, examine her body, lay her beauty nude, and drink it in. He could do it. But he managed to contain himself. He was the reason she felt safe here, and he knew it. He'd be an idiot to fuck that up.

He covered her with the blankets, doused the lights, and left the apartment. Going into his own place, he locked the door behind him, and leaned on the door. Christ.

He undressed in the empty apartment, thinking about how Carrie had suggested that nobody would ever come in the windows. He had startled, looked at her, remembering the times he'd fantasized about doing that himself.

He got in the shower, revisiting the familiar fantasy. Creeping up the wall, opening her bedroom window, finding her alone in bed, soft and lovely, like she was right now. Undressing, his shadow a dark slash of yearning crossing her bed in the gloom. Removing the bedclothes, and lifting her gown (from now on in this fantasy, it would be the gray silk, he knew) and quietly, softly, beginning his lovemaking without waking her. Disparity of force guaranteed that she would submit, but in his fantasies, Carrie always accepted his torrid kisses, his heated caresses, welcoming the pleasure and pain he brought her.

He took himself in hand, ready to finish the fantasy, already so close to coming, just from putting her to bed. In his dream, he'd use his thigh to part her thighs, press on her, excite her, moisten her opening. Then his fingers. Turning her to face away from him, and as she lay on her side, gasping, moaning, quickening her, he would enter her from behind, and use her to please himself. Then, he'd turn her face down, lay full length on top of her, so she could feel his weight, his power, fucking her until she came. She, calling out, even begging for mercy from the pleasure, her head turned to the side as he pinned her, his mouth on her cheek, her neck, as he surged into her, uncaging his darkest wants at last, pouring this frenzy into her body, until climax exhausted her and she slept in his arms. His mind exploded with the desire to possess her, take her utterly, satisfy her so deeply that no man else would ever please her. She would be a willing slave to his cock, and suck him when he requested it.

This final image took Quinn over the edge, leaving him standing in a cloud of steam, breathing hard, leaning on the wall with both hands. His boiling lust only partly sated, he finished washing, turned off the shower, and toweled off.

He lay in bed, wearing a pair of boxers, contemplating the key on the ring. Admission to the chamber that held that object of his obsession. It would be so easy, he thought. She relied on him to protect her, and he did. But there were nights – like this one – when he felt almost crazed enough to do it. Would she slap his face? Or take him in her arms, melting, face open like a flower? Quinn didn't know.

As he did every night, he held Carrie's face in his mind, and tried to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Quinn had been in bed for about an hour, and had just fallen into a restless doze, when his iPhone pinged. Swiping it open, he saw a text message from Carrie.

"Can't sleep. You awake?" was all it said.

It certainly had looked to him like she could sleep, at least when he had left her. He had thought she'd sleep around the clock, after the crazy night she'd had. He texted back:

"I'm awake. What's up"

As if he'd ever say, "I'm sleeping, don't bug me." For her, he was always awake. A moment later, another text arrived.

"Come over?"

No explanation. He sighed. It could be anything, he thought. She sometimes treated him like a dorm buddy, someone to be utilized for companionship simply because of proximity. Sometimes she called him for political worries, Lockhart or Boyd-related concerns. Once she had even called him to help her open a jar of cocktail olives. He hadn't really minded. He liked it when she needed him.

He got up, pulled on a t-shirt and a loose pair of pajama pants. He grabbed the key, went next door, and unlocking her place, let himself inside.

He had a vanishingly small hope that she would be in bed, in the dark, waiting for him. And that the reason for the call would be her need for his long-awaited touch – her inability to sleep related to wanting him, needing him to make love to her. He knew it was an unhealthy obsession, but he couldn't turn it off. His life revolved around it.

Instead, he found her in the bedroom, all lights on, in a bra and panties, throwing clothes on the bed. Bustling back and forth from closet to bed, trying to pick an outfit, apparently. He gaped for a long moment at her glossy hair, her sleek form in the black lace, and then stepped inside the bedroom, making his presence known.

"Carrie." He called it out, hoping she'd stop and turn. She didn't, just continued to dig through her clothes. She tried on a glittery black tank top with spaghetti straps, then tore it off again.

"Carrie!" he finally shouted. "What are you doing? It's the middle of the night," he finished more quietly, as she finally turned to him, huge eyes shining.

"I'm going out. I have to go out," she said. She hopped from one foot to the other, almost unable to stand still.

"Go out and do what?" Quinn asked, trying to be calming, reasonable. "It's almost 2 AM."

"To party," she said, and locating a form-fitting pair of shiny black capris, started to yank those on.

Oh, shit, Quinn realized. The number of days that Carrie had been on the hallucinogen, she had also been off her regular medication. Her inability to sleep, her agitation, her desire to go out and, oh God, most likely pick up some guy, all pointed towards a manic episode. Thank God she had texted him. He'd have to work this angle like she was an asset, because she certainly wasn't behaving rationally.

"Carrie," he said. "If it were midnight, even, I'd take you. But all the decent bars are closed."

She eyed him, trying to decide if there was an alternative. "I'll go by myself, then, and find some place," she said, looking down at her clothing heap, hanging one or two things back up and pulling more out.

He panicked. He couldn't have that, even if he had to tie her to the bed. Of course, this notion sent his mind spinning again. The image of her, restrained on the bed, breasts heaving, his mouth hovering over her nipples. Snap out of it, he told himself.

"This isn't D.C., it's Islamabad," he said, trying to sound severe. "There's nothing to find, except Mosques and rapists."

This brusque statement seemed to break through the frenetic motion, the urge to leave, to just go and go until she found a bottle of wine, a liter of vodka, and someone to use their cock to damp the aching, quell the mania.

"Shit," she said, almost a sob in her voice. She still paced back and forth, but more slowly. She sighed, folded her arms, appeared distraught. Quinn walked over to Carrie, put his hands on her shoulders, and steered her over to the bed, where he pressed down, indicating she should sit. She did.

"Stay put," he instructed.

He started to hang up her clothes, deciding to deal with this in as straightforward a way as possible. He knew he had influence with her, but she could be flighty. "I think the last few days off your regular meds has fucked with you," he said, simply. He hung up a glossy navy cocktail dress, still smelling of some striking perfume. Who knew she even had this stuff?

As he swept the hangers aside on the rod, he revealed a hidden closet shelf, where a dildo and a vibrator were concealed. A hole opened in Quinn's stomach as his hindbrain blew a fuse. She had to pleasure herself, had the tools to do it. His mind reeled. He recaptured his composure, and continued hanging up her things.

"I hadn't thought of it," she said, still sitting on the edge of the bed in bra and panties, evidently no modesty at all, no concern at being seen that way. Shows me how far around the bend she's gone, he thought, but it sure improves the fuck out of the view. He had been half-hard since walking in, only his concern for her keeping a full-blown erection from manifesting.

"I'm sure of it," he said. "You need a day or two, maybe a week to get stabilized. This time you won't end up in jail or hallucinating, but the results could be just as bad." He imagined Carrie up against a wall, skirt around her waist, moaning with abandon, some dipshit Expat grunting and sighing as he fucked her in the hotel bathroom, not even knowing her name. It was both mental torture, and blackly exciting. He finished hanging up all her clothes, and pulled a plush white bathrobe out of her closet. He stepped over to her, wrapped it around her shoulders.

"Oh, God, Quinn," she said, finally realizing what she had been doing, what she was about to do. "What the fuck is wrong with me?" her voice quavered upwards pathetically, as she worked her arms into the robe, and belted up. Well, there went the view, he thought. But the protective pit-bull in his mind relaxed a bit. She was safe with him.

He sat next to her on the bed, dared to reach an arm around her shoulders. She leaned gratefully into his strength; put her head on his shoulder. He rubbed her shoulder and arm, up and down, soothingly. "Nothing you didn't already know about," he said. "This is part of the condition. You were right to text me," he said.

"I still feel it. I'm only sitting here because you're making me. I want to climb the walls, I want to go fuck someone, drink a barrel of whiskey. I don't know what to do with myself," she said, helplessly, hands in her lap, clenching, then loosening again.

He pulled her closer, kept stroking her arm. "It'll pass," he said. "You feel bad enough to go to the hospital?" he asked. He thought he knew the answer, but it was the right thing to say.

She shook her head, her face pressing into his shoulder. "No." she said. "One psychiatric hospital visit a week should be enough for any lunatic," she said, sounding close to tears again.

Quinn sighed. To live with her mental illness was a daily challenge. She had been so controlled, so compliant, this entire year. And these fuckers had knocked her off the rails. He wanted to find the bastard who had switched out her meds, throttle them until their eyes bulged. "I'll stay with you," he said. "We don't go out, we just stay here. I'll talk to you all night. Whatever you need, Carrie," he said, his heart wrenching in his chest.

She seemed to relax, her bare feet swinging a little at the edge of the bed. She took her head off his shoulder and sat up, head turning to look directly at him. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Quinn," she said, sincerely. "If you weren't in Islamabad right now, what the fuck would I be doing?"

He patted her back between the shoulder blades. The thought had occurred to him, plenty of times. "It doesn't matter. I'm here."

She stood up and left the bedroom, walking into the kitchen. "As I've completely lost my ability to think straight," she said, "What do you think about me having a drink?"

He followed after her. "As long as you stay home," he said.

She opened the freezer and pulled out a bottle of vodka. "This?" she asked.

"If you take it easy, Carrie," he cautioned. "You don't want to feel like shit tomorrow, for more than one reason."

She poured a healthy nip into a glass for herself, then one for him. They both headed back to the living room and took up their usual positions. He, on the ottoman facing her, so he could see her face. She on the couch, legs tucked under herself, the fluffy bathrobe concealing her delicious legs. It was for the best, he thought. She was out of her mind tonight, still was.

She drank half of it in one gulp. So much for moderation. He took a cautious sip, waited, listening.

"I've been lonely, Quinn," she said, solemnly, "ever since my diagnosis. So fucking lonely. I have had this feeling, you know? That I was going to be alone for the rest of my life." Her eyes were huge in the dim light, desolate and dark.

"That's only going to be true, if you want it to be," Quinn said. He looked at his drink. If he looked right at her, his face would be a tell – she'd see right into him and know what he meant.

She gave a bitter laugh. "I don't know. I used to think I loved Brody. But the more I think about it, the more I think we both knew the whole thing was a fantasy," she said. He had thought the same thing himself, through the whole messy affair. But he hadn't felt able to talk to her about any of it, not then. It was only since Istanbul and Sandy's death that he'd been close enough to her to say anything at all. And even now, he was vigilant in his words, still afraid that revealing too much would cause her nascent feelings, if they existed at all, to take flight. She drank the rest of her vodka in another gulp, and got up, headed to the kitchen to get more.

"Easy, Carrie. Wait for the first one to take effect, at least," he said, concerned. But she pulled the vodka out of the freezer, and poured another, heedless.

"I'm staying home, right? It's ok," she said, ambling back over to the couch across from him.

"Anyway," she continued. "I am not even sure that I know what love is. I just know that I'm fucking lonely. And I don't even know why I'm telling you this," she said.

He took another restrained sip. Considered the right words to use. He wanted her to come into his fold, willingly, a shy deer eating from his hand, doe eyes blinking. Not corral her and keep her. If anything happened between them, it would have to be because she came to him, loved him in return. His love was too fierce, too tribal, to trap something, only to have it run away.

"I'm here for you," he said simply. "I have been for years."

That got her attention. The alcohol was taking effect. "You  _are_  here for me," she said, "and I'm glad. But I can remember some times in the near and distant past when I don't think you liked me very much. I  _still_  think you don't like me very much, sometimes," she said, drinking again. God, slow down, he thought. She eyed him warily, waiting for contradiction, or maybe a fight.

He wasn't going there. "We disagree sometimes. That's normal," he said. "But it doesn't change what I feel," he said. There, he thought, I stumbled on it. It's hanging in the air. If she asks me  _what_  I feel, I'll not be able to lie.

But she didn't. She finished the second straight vodka, a swift gulp of intoxication. Set the glass down with a clunk, and said, "I feel like the most unlovable person in the world." Getting up, she headed to the bathroom, shut the door. His heart was almost crushed in his chest, the pathos for her, the longing. They were both such terribly damaged people. He longed to heal her, make her better. They could heal each other, he knew it.

He sat, waiting for her, listening. He could hear the toilet, and then water running. He hoped she didn't have any unknown pills in there, because on top off the booze, it could be dangerous. Finally, she emerged, walking a trifle unsteadily.

Quinn got up, and went into the kitchen as she wobbled back to the couch. Got a glass of water, brought it to her. He pressed it into her hand. "Drink some of this, then you're going to bed," he said.

He was relieved to see that she didn't flare angrily, condemn him for giving orders. She drank about half of it, and stood.

He turned off the room lights, as she shuffled into the bedroom, throwing the robe on the floor, and collapsing into bed. He was worried she'd go out in the night, drunk or not. He decided he'd sleep on her couch. with one eye open.

He turned off her bedroom light, helped her pull the covers up, as she squirmed deeper into bed, the intimacy of the situation poignant, and painful. He wanted to put her to bed every night, only be on the other side of the covers. Unlovable, was she kidding? She was the only person in the world he could picture himself loving.

As he pulled the down comforter up to her chin, she reached out. Grabbed his wrist. Her hand was hot, and her eyes appeared full of tears.

"Don't leave me, Quinn," she said, heartbreakingly.

Leave her now, or leave her ever? Either way, the answer was the same. "I won't," he said, voice restrained, near tears himself. Was she asking him to stay? She was sick, she had had a few belts. She was off the hook. He couldn't take advantage, he wouldn't.

In the near darkness, her voice came again. "Sleep with me," she said, more than a little tipsy. His heart lurched, a turmoil of desire, love and pain.

"I'll stay," he said, a contained ball of passion and want. "I'll be right here."

Hi climbed onto the bed next to her, on top of the covers. Her refined beauty, bound in black lace, was trapped below the sheets, taut and voluptuous. Quinn laid next to Carrie, full length, pressing his body into hers, through the softness of the thick comforter. His arm went around her chest, collected her hand in his, and pressed both their hands to her breastbone. Clutching tightly, he said only, "You're not unlovable." Her agitation calmed at his closeness, the long pressure of his body, the breath of his concern in her ear.

Carrie's voice came quietly, like a ghost into the darkness. "You make me believe it," she sighed. Her body relaxed, and she was out.

He rested his head on her pillow, his nose in her hair, her delectable beauty so close, and so vulnerable, his erection painfully hard at her proximity, her scent. He wondered if sleep would ever come. He decided it didn't matter.

He closed his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

Quinn lay in the dark, snuggled next to Carrie's sleeping form, her breaths coming slow and even in the nightlit bedroom. His nose lay next to the fall of her blonde hair, a shock of sweet-smelling cornsilk on the pillow. As he became certain she was asleep, he relaxed incrementally, his arm around her slacking just the slightest degree. His hold on her hand loosened not at all. If she so much as scratched her nose, he wanted to know it. Thank God she had texted, that he had been available, and had been able to forestall her late-night ramble of alcohol and sex. He was profoundly relieved that he had been there when she was preparing to go out. At the same time, he was mired in a circle of mental torment, her closeness, nakedness, her lovely and weak condition rendering him nearly delirious with sexual frustration. His hardon throbbed, merciless. At this rate, he'd never sleep. A small price to pay.

He considered their relationship, the development of their acquaintance, their friendship, over the two years he'd known her. They had not started out close and friendly, that was for sure. But from the beginning, he knew that she was good at her work, and had told her so. Insightful, clever, dedicated, resourceful. Her mind was a steel trap of memory, things and ideas. Her ability to see through problems allowed her and their team to bring them closer to Javadi, bring him in; though her unorthodox methods made his skin crawl, even back then. She had sat in a lunatic asylum, as a farce, in order to provide cover for the next story with Saul. He had visited her there, almost not knowing why. He had asked her to be careful, to protect herself, not go around spilling Agency secrets. And she had asked him, "Are you here to get me out?" His heart in his throat, he had confessed, that no, he couldn't.

Not that he didn't want to. She lay there, vulnerable in the mental hospital, no freedom and no ability to refuse what they wanted to do to her, whatever that might be, even ECT. He considered her intellect, her dedication, her free-will, trapped in a place where anyone could victimize her. It was like watching a golden eagle, pacing in a parrot-sized cage. They had disagreed, and she had accused him of having been sent by Saul. How little he knew, because at the time he hadn't understood the whole play. So he had left.

He thought it was then that the unnamable emotion began in him, the longing. Despite his reserve, his logic, and his long tenure with a group that literally killed for a living, Quinn found that the tender feelings surrounding his association with Carrie Mathison initiated, grew, and eventually came to dominate his thoughts about her, the CIA, and the world around him. It would not be too much of an exaggeration to say that at this point, his mind literally revolved around her, like a black satellite orbiting a flaming yellow sun. Her needs, her thoughts, her desires, were foremost in his mind. She only had to ask, and he virtually leapt to comply. It took everything he had to stay cool enough that this behavior was not too apparent.

Without her encouragement or even her notice, Quinn's connection with Carrie grew closer. This year, he had gone off the rails, had tried to leave the Agency, but when she had called, he came right back in, as if he'd been waiting for her call - the sense of purpose. The night he discovered that Sandy's death and the ensuing street riot had been choreographed by unknown persons in control of the Pakistani paramilitary, she had pleaded with him to come back. "Quinn, I really need you now," she had said. And despite his miserable internal landscape, a devastation of guilt and loss, he had acceded. He had known that his position with Dar Adal's group was a soul-killing job that he couldn't continue long term, and that any Agency job was somehow an extension of that, even if it felt like escape. But she had called, nearly begged.

So he had ended up back in Islamabad, with the unenviable job title, "Chief of Support." No doubt certain Agency alumns sniggered at that. He assisted her on Ops, helped brief and train Fara, connected Max with the materials he'd needed to continue surveillance on their individuals of interest, at her offsite HQ, and was more or less her constant companion. But he knew his real reason for returning was to make sure she was safe. Sheltering Carrie, assuring her protection, both from outside forces and herself: that was his real reason for remaining here.

So it had made him nearly crazy to find that she had spent a night in Aasar Khan's house, in his arms, hallucinating. Once again, he cursed himself for not finding her, preventing that escapade. If she had imagined that licentious fucker was Brody, what had she done? Kissed him? Grabbed his crotch? Had he fucked her? His mind swum with the images, rendering him almost ill with jealousy. Then, her body shifted, and his thoughts returned to the logical extraction of his current situation – all the more immediate, desirable and unbelievable. He had spent so many nights across the hall, hoping she'd notice him, need him. And here he was, wrapped around her on her bed. It boggled the mind.

His cock was a twist of animal need, pressed into her buttocks. Fortunately, the bulk of the comforter separated them, and he could press ever so lightly upon her slumbering frame without notice. His mind spun out. Retrieved the threads of some of his very best fantasies, embroidered on them further. He was still aware of the need to be discreet, not wake her up. But the opportunity to pander to his some of his debauched night-thoughts, as she slept right in his arms, was irresistible.

Take the idea of Carrie tied to the bed, an image he'd had to fight down, while he negotiated with her manic phase. One of his top ten. Imagine, he thought, if she'd tried to go out without him. He knew he wouldn't have allowed it, and his conscious mind knew that what he really would have done was called the Embassy equivalent of 911, and declared her mental state as a medical emergency, after which she'd have been transported to the hospital. This was the correct response, and his defensive bulldog mind knew it.

But he was also perversely excited by the idea that he'd have had to restrain her here. He was certainly big enough to capture her. He could have easily found enough straps and ties in her courtesan's closet of seductive clothing, to bind and restrain her. These standard-issue embassy bed frames appeared to make ideal platforms for involuntary bondage. He moved closer, clasped Carrie tighter, pressed his cock into her, listening to hear breathing, slow and even. He pictured himself overpowering her and tying her to the bed frame, on her back, hands tied above. Feet separated, to either corner of the bed, below. She might fight like a wildcat, but he was much the heavier and stronger, was trained to seize and disable. Bound, she would be so angry at first, struggling and pulling at her bonds, while he watched, apparently impassive, eyes gray and hooded with lust, hers dark, and flashing with anger, desire. Then having been grappled and bound, she understanding, submitting to him. Her lids lowering, surrendering her beauty, her face a pale saucer of need and fear, as he removed her black lace undergarments. With a knife to cut them off, he thought, almost in a rage of sexual pain.

Then with her naked, he'd begin to tease and taunt her. The many months, even years of desire for her would be expressed on her naked form, she, so fair and vulnerable in the star-dark evening. He could hear her voice in his mind, begging first to be untied, then for physical release, which he would give repeatedly, tongue and fingers working, maybe using the vibrator she had secreted in her closet, until she was so overcome with repeated orgasm that she begged him to stop. Eventually, she would be wild-eyed and begging for his cock, the only thing that could bring her final satisfaction, surcease. If she became obstreperous, he'd find something to gag her with, a bright gash of red satin, perhaps with a pair of her own panties thrust in, so she could taste herself. If she was disrespectful enough, as she writhed and heaved under his mouth and tongue, he would spank her.

This last thought nearly caused him to shoot in his pants. Jesus, he thought. It was almost more than a man could bear. He decided he'd leave her alone long enough to go in her bathroom, and stroke himself to orgasm, just to get loose enough to sleep. But as he released her hand, sat up, and moved to the door, she had moved, turned, called out to him. Quietly, but clearly.

"You said you wouldn't leave me," she said. Drowsy, but not asleep.

So she had been awake, had no doubt felt his stealthy grinding. He decided to act as if it hadn't happened.

"Just to the bathroom," he said, by way of excuse.

She sniffled, rolled around, finding a cool spot on the pillow, and revealing a heart-rending stretch of nude back, her black bra and white skin a visible contrast even in the near darkness. "Okay," was all she said.

Well, now what would he do? He went to the bathroom and tried to think of anything to get his nearly perma-hard state to settle down. A few minutes later, he was finally successful, and was able to take a piss. He washed his hands, padded back to her bedroom, over the carpet in the dark.

She was waiting, enormous eyes open.

"You want me to sleep on the couch?" Quinn asked, not sure which answer he hoped for.

"No," Carrie said, her voice sounding forsaken. "I want you right here."

He hoped he could be calm, stay in control, as she had rolled over, and when he climbed back into his place, she was facing him, arms curled up, his head on the pillow only a few inches away from her face.

"Did you sleep at all?" he asked softly, not touching her yet.

"For a while," she said, her mania, though quieted, a cloak of invisible need. "I don't know what I would have done without you, Quinn," she said. Her voice was barren, and he saw the bright sparkle of a tear as it trickled across her reclining face. Her suffering tore at him. He reached out and with one hand, stroked her arm, her shoulder.

"Doesn't matter," he said, "Go back to sleep." She didn't close her eyes, didn't move, just continued to stare at his face, which he cast down self-consciously. She was buried to above the breasts in the feather comforter, but his awareness of what she had on under there was top of his mind.

She breathed in, a huge, shaky breath, and blew it back out. "When's it going to stop hurting?" she said softly, in some ways speaking to him, in other ways, to no one. There was a barrenness to her stare, and her voice. He was so glad to be there. Any source of warmth, even his ridiculous, obsessive hardon, had to feel better than loneliness, when one was as despondent as she seemed.

"I don't know," he said, feeling powerless. "Is there anything I can do?"

"I can think of a few things," she said, sounding wicked and a little unhinged. He gulped.

Carrie reached out a slim arm, put her hand on Quinn's cheek. Her thumb smoothed over his cheekbone, covered with stubble. Her hand was hot as an oven. He shuddered, as she gave a hitching sob.

"If I ask you to fuck me, fill the emptiness up, can you do it?" she asked, like ordering a cheeseburger or a beer. "This is how I get. I get so fucking miserable," she said, still touching his face, "I feel so bad, Quinn. That nothing in the world can calm me, except that one thing." She was actually begging him to fuck her, dependent, defenseless, and in pain. But not as a lover, as a band-aid on her mental agony. He groaned and took her hand away.

"I think you'd feel bad in the morning, Carrie," he said, still determined beyond all hope to provide her with safety and the best chance of self-respect in the morning. "I think you should sleep. Turn over," he ordered. She looked at him a moment longer, and then she did as he asked, squirming to get comfortable. His head pillowed on one folded arm, he used the other to stroke the skin of her back, rubbing firmly up and down, covering as much surface area as possible with pleasurable feeling. She seemed to relax into it, and he continued.

She sighed. Gave a hiccup, barked out a brief single sob. He stopped massaging her, and pulled up the covers to bury her slim form, over everything but her face, then leaned into her again. Quinn pressed his arm over her arms and torso, even wrapped a leg around her lower body, to cocoon and trap her in warmth and shelter. His self control was in almost in tatters, but he knew what she needed.

"If you feel the same way, even a week from now, I'll..." he trailed off, thinking of the right words. Not even sure what she'd remember. "I'll give you what you're asking for. But I want you in your right mind, Carrie. It's been an insane couple of days, and I want you to decide with a clear mind. In the light of day."

She sighed, wiggled in the human burrito he'd created around her, feeling bundled in a little tightly. The pressure of his body was soothing, and she almost felt restrained, like Quinn was a human straightjacket, preventing her injuring herself.

"I guess you're right," she said, more quietly. "I'm not thinking straight." She stopped struggling, lay passive under his weight, his control. "It sure felt like you wanted me, though," she said. So she had felt his squirming into her, had felt his granite-hard erection, even through the fluffy comforter.

Somehow, he didn't feel ashamed. She got what she got, and she was lucky he wasn't a different kind of guy. Most men would be giving her the high, hard one right now, her ankles on their shoulders. Certainly, after that kind of invitation.

Finally, he answered, though she appeared asleep, had stopped moving, in the roll of tight bedclothes, under his arm and leg. He answered her question softly, speaking mostly to the dark, and wondered if this night would ever end.

"I do," he said. "I do."


	5. Chapter 5

Eyes completely adjusted to the dark by now, Peter lay still, his body still pinioning Carrie under the bedcovers, even though she had long since stopped wriggling. Her closeness and heat brought him comfort, even though it brought no respite from his arousal, which had eventually dulled somewhat from sheer fatigue. At some point, he must have relaxed enough to fall asleep for a couple of hours. But it had been a light sleep, because his nerves were at a razor point, as if he were on a job, in case Carrie roused and tried to go out again.

Quinn had no idea what time it was, but it must have been moving towards dawn, because he thought he could hear the bustle of the Marine guard changing shifts in front of the main gates, and the stir of others in the Embassy apartments waking and preparing for their days. Probably everyone running on a full night's sleep, he thought, dejectedly, ready to fill up on coffee and balushahi, and get on with business. He sighed. It certainly wouldn't be the first time he'd gone almost without sleep.

For most of his life, sleep, food, and sex were things that Quinn had been used to going without. It was not uncommon for him to skip meals, pull all-nighters, or go for months without the touch of another human being. His Black Ops lifestyle seemed to necessitate that he treat all these things, which most people enjoyed like an all-you-can-eat buffet of pleasures, as something scarcer. Good meals, long evenings of sexual pleasure and decent rest were things he encountered sporadically enough that they stood out in his memory. But mostly, what he remembered was the privation. In one nightmarish 7 month period in 2010, for example, he could recall going on 4 jobs that required termination of a target, and in that time he had not so much as touched a woman, let alone spent the night with one. Four kills, and not one decent fuck.

Was it any wonder that in his odd and lonely life that his sexual needs became repressed, and took dark turns of mind? Nor was it any wonder that the only person he could see, ever picture himself with, was a woman similarly dedicated to job and country, so much so that she allowed her mind and body to be abused for the purpose? In so many ways, they were the same, and broken in the same places. They were cracked, but the cracks fit together, like an Escher-esque yin-and-yang. If he had to hang around forever, he swore, someday he'd help her to see it. Together, they could mend. But that put him in a spot – here he was, living with the continual distraction of Carrie and his erotic impulses towards her. Still, his life had been all about tough choices and self-control. For her, and hopefully someday, for them, he would keep himself in check.

In his effort to keep Carrie from going off half-cocked, and then resisting her attempts to utilize his sexual favors as an anesthetic for the agony of her bipolar mania, he had all but forgotten the order of business they had to attend to this day. He loathed telling her. But when she awoke, he'd have to remind her that Saul was being held and used as a bargaining tool in Haqqani's prisoner exchange, a colossal tumult of diplomatic malfunction, in which Lockhart and Boyd insisted that they'd never allow Saul to be executed by these terrorists. However, what the Talibs wanted in exchange was a group of men representing Haqqani's entire command structure – names of detainees, Taliban warlords that had been captured by the US because of countless hours of intel work, and no doubt the sacrifice of more than one American life. Absent from this negotiation the previous day, Carrie had missed Saul's impassioned plea on Haqqani's video. "Don't do it, don't do it," he had panted, "Not anything! Tell them to go to fucking hell!" Saul had continued, hysterical, until the Talibs had dragged him off-camera.

Lockhart accepted that the Americans would simply hand over Haqqani's chosen few, and this grated on Peter for more than one reason. Of course, he wanted Saul freed from his imprisonment, and Lockhart's calling up the images of Daniel Pearl didn't do anything for his peace of mind. But it was a dreadful bargain at best. Quinn considered that Carrie's cold-hearted order to shoot and destroy Haqqani with the drone when they had the chance had been the brutal but strategically correct decision, even if it meant killing Saul. But he had seized her arms, reminded her that this was her mentor, her friend. His intensity had convinced her. He had countermanded her order, and Reaper One had stood down. He had the best of intentions – had been trying to keep Carrie from making a decision that would slay her soul- but the results had been all the worse. He wasn't sure he could live with that regret, unless some kind of recompense was made. He wished he could see what that atonement looked like, and what the cost would be. But he hadn't a clue.

She moved under the heavy blankets, moaned, and turned to face him. Her eyes came into focus on his face, like she was surprised he was there. He removed his leg from over her body, and one of Carrie's arms emerged from the covers, landed on Peter's shoulder, her palm over his ear and hair.

"Quinn," she said, sounding surprised, and frankly happy that it was him. She almost smiled, then frowned. "Oh, my God. Did we fuck?"

He took a deep breath, put his hand over hers, and patted, reassuringly. "Nope," he said. "I just kept you home. You had a few drinks, is all."

She let go of his hand, threw off the covers, and realized her near nakedness. Evidently, a day and night on normal medication had restored her sense of modesty, which he found both a relief and a disappointment. She dragged the comforter off the bed and wrapped up in it. "OK." she said, walking to the window. He sat up, moved to the edge of the bed, waited for her to finish looking out through the pulled-back curtains. Waiting for her to decide what to do next.

The dawn light cast a pastel glow around her petite silhouette. Her hair was mussed, and she was swathed in the pale duvet, wrapped from chest to feet in the softness, the excess dragging behind and curving around her feet like the train of a bridal gown. She didn't turn around. "I'm glad you were here," she said, not looking at him, circumspect.

He sat on the foot of the bed. "I'm glad I was here, too. You were… going to go out," he said.

She turned around to look at him, eyes full of hurt. "Oh, I was, huh," she said. "That figures. What a fucking mess." To his dismay, she sat down right on the floor in a heap, the comforter pooled around her, and buried her face in her hands. "Oh, Christ," she sighed. "You must hate me, because I fucking hate myself."

Quinn was on his feet immediately, then on his knees next to her, put his arms around her.

"No, no, no. Never say that. It wasn't your fault, it was the fucking medication. They poisoned you, they exploited a weakness." She buried her face in his chest, arms around his waist. Squeezed tightly. He felt her shake, like she was going to weep, but then she regained control of herself a bit, and let go. Sat back, and wrapped the comforter over herself. Quinn sat back too, on the floor nearby.

Carrie wiped a tear from each cheek with the flat of her hand. "You're right," she said, sounding angry. Good, he thought, finally, she's mad at someone besides herself. "It wasn't fair."

"It fucking well wasn't, and you know it. But now you need to pull your shit together, Carrie. All kinds of shit is about to go down, and I know Lockhart's going to want to confer before we agree on a prisoner exchange. Are you ok to go?"

He watched her face. She didn't crumple, she didn't cry. She stood up, and nodded. "I'm ok," she said.

"Alright, I'm going home to shower, then we meet up at 0630 in the secure room. If you feel like you're a flight risk again, any time, I want you to fucking call me, immediately, do you understand?" He felt a little embarrassed giving her orders, but at the same time, he could see the gratitude on her face. Her trust in him, it was apparent. She had to be able to feel the love underneath, somehow. At least, that's what he hoped.

"Yeah, I will." She headed towards the bathroom, trailing the bedquilt like the robe of a queen, as he went to the door of her apartment.

As he left, he turned back and caught a final flash of her lovely pale shoulder under the black bra strap. "And Carrie?" he asked.

Her head poked back out the bathroom door.

"Yeah?"

"Fucking eat something," he said.

She smiled, and shut the bathroom door.

An hour had passed, and Quinn had just finished showering and shaving, was pulling on work clothes, when a fist thundered on his door. He looked briefly through the peephole and saw Carrie, dressed, but with wet hair. His stomach dropped – now what?

"Quinn, let me in!" she shouted in the hall.

"Just a second," he called as he turned his locks and opened the door.

She darted inside, wild-eyed, iPhone in hand.

"Carrie, what is it?" he asked anxiously. Her eyes were enormous, and her face was white as a sheet.

"It's Saul. He's escaped."


	6. Chapter 6

Carrie and Quinn arrived in the Ops center minutes after Saul's call. He had somehow gotten free, been able to run loose into the countryside, no support and no exfil plan. Quinn had gotten on the line to calm him down, and do what he did best, be a calming guide and try to help him find his way out.

"Saul, it's Quinn. We need to locate you. What can you see?" he said.

"Nothing," Saul raged. "It's pitch black, I can't see my feet."

Quinn exchanged a brief look with Carrie. "Well, the good news is that nobody can see you," he said.

Quinn and Carrie were honing in on a GPS signal from his phone, and finally had a map and a direction for Saul, then sent him off in the direction of an asset, a city and a place they thought he could be extracted from. Quinn sent Saul on an extended hike of 20 miles.

Saul, not a young man, and not in the best shape of his life, sigh dispiritedly. "20 miles? Oh, shit," he moaned.

Quinn, ever in an effort to put a positive spin on the situation for an agent at hazard, said, "No, no, it's good. As far as they know, it could be any direction. That means they have to cover 1,500 square miles. They're looking for a needle in a haystack." Carrie looked gratefully at Quinn.

Quinn gave Saul the asset's name, Azam Shah, his location on Ferozepur Road in Makin, and sent him on his way. Saul had huffed into the phone, and demanded to speak to Carrie only. She only wished she had shared the earpiece with Quinn when he demanded that if he get recaptured, that she would promise to wipe him out. "Escape or die, Carrie," he'd breathed, desperate. It made sense to Saul, obviously, but not to Carrie. And he'd gone dark, thinking Special Forces would be able to extract him from Shah's place in the morning.

Quinn had stayed in the Ops room, while Carrie went back to the conference room with the Pakistanis, sitting with Boyd, Lockhart and the rest, negotiating terms of the Taliban demands with Tasneem, Khan and Bunny, But she'd had a horrible feeling the whole time. She'd shown Lockhart a note: "Why don't they seem worried?" Eventually she'd gotten up and left the meeting, Lockhart followed her, and Khan's eyes followed her as well, never having left her the entire meeting, nor the moment she walked out. She noticed Khan had spent every moment studying her since she came in.

Carrie and been right, and in Makim, everything had gone completely and utterly balls-up, because the Taliban had only to figure the direction help would be coming from, using the drone in the air to confirm that Saul was there, and bring the convergence of a large amount of Taliban forces concentrating in the area. Saul's supposed safe stop was compromised, and the special forces team, Three One Delta, was forced to pull back – it simply wasn't safe to walk them into Makin, given the opposition on the ground.

Carrie tried to move Saul, but at some point, he snapped to what was happening, and said, "I will not go back to those people, Carrie."

Carrie could see Saul from the drone camera, and she saw him take the pistol he'd gotten from the asset, Shah, and point it right at his carotid artery. He said, "I've had a good run of it," and nearly had blown his own head off. Carrie somehow had talked him back down, saying, "I'm in the Ops room! I am looking at the screen and I am telling you, it is not hopeless!" She insisted, used all her persuasive powers, and their long relationship won out over his instincts. Three One Delta stood down, as extraction was impossible, Quinn knew it, they all knew it.

A moment later, Saul was being walked by Carrie through the market, through businesses, around private homes, and into the arms of the waiting Taliban agents, who recaptured him. She simply could not watch her mentor commit suicide, but then she had to listen as he cursed her, his cries of rage and pain echoing through the Ops chamber as the Talibs hauled Saul off to some special hell they keep for escapees: "Help me! Carrie! Get off of me! You fucking lied to me! Goddamn you! You fucking lied! You fucking lied to me! Fuck you! Goddamn you! You fucking lied to me! Oh, goddamn you!"

"Turn it off," Carrie shouted, and stormed out of the Ops suite. Quinn was close behind, as Lockhart swore, and headed back to the diplomatic table, having to now deal with the scum he had hoped to tell to fuck off. It made Quinn sick, it made Carrie sick. She had promised Saul he wouldn't fall back into their hands. But she had walked him right into them. The worst outcome, and she had felt like the worst kind of traitor.

That night, in her rooms, Quinn sat with Carrie, reviewing the events of the day.

"I was trying to do the right thing, for once," she said.

Quinn made a disgusted face. "Don't say, 'For once.'"

She looked thoughtfully back at him, and said, "I was trying to keep someone alive. Someone I care about."

Quinn said nothing, just studied her exhausted face, his chin on his hands. Then said, "Which you did."

"I don't know what I did," Carrie said, distraught. "I betrayed Saul, and he was counting on me. I broke a promise."

Quinn sat forward in the chair. Carrie was upset and near collapse with exhaustion. There wasn't much left to discuss, there was no possible way to help Saul tonight, or at all until the prisoner exchange, and he was on the verge of folding himself. He needed a few hours in the rack, or he'd be useless to her or anyone else. Then, the air in the room changed temperature. Quinn reminded himself – Carrie had been off her meds, and she was still a sick woman. Less sick than the night before, but... still.

Carrie moved over to the chair where Quinn was sitting. She knelt on the floor in front of him. Put her hands on his knees. She appealed to him, bloodshot eyes wide open, hair straggling around her shoulders, as tired as he had ever seen her, but sincere. His hands came down to hers, held them.

Carrie spoke, on her knees, like to a Priest in a confessional. "I mean, how… how could saving someone's life be the wrong choice?" she asked, her heart almost literally failing in her chest. "But it was, because there are only wrong choices." Quinn held her hands, hard. Looked into her eyes.

Carrie continued. "It's like I'm finally seeing it now, for the first time. Nothing good can happen in this fucked-up world that we've made for ourselves," she finished.

She moved her head until she captured his eyes. "Can it?" She stayed there, on her knees. Waiting.

"And Quinn," she said, "remember you said to tell you if I thought I was a flight risk? If I thought my manic urge was going to take me out the door?"

"Yes," he said, steadily, his hands still gripped around her wrists, iron manacles of ardor.

"I feel like that right now," she said. Her eyes, almost gray with exhaustion, her skin like a pan of milk. He felt such terribly pity for her state, such terrible love.

"Stand up. We've both been awake for something like two days. Get ready for bed, we could both use some rest," Quinn said. He used his grip on her forearms to help her to her feet, then let go. Wanted to see if she could get done what she needed to, if she'd still respond to him.

"Right," Carrie said.

Quinn sat back down on the couch, studied his iPhone. "I'll be waiting right here, until I see you're ready to sleep," he said, calculatedly looking down.

Carrie went off to her bedroom, without another word. Emerged in a few minutes wearing a light t-shirt and pajama bottoms, and padded back across the apartment to the bathroom barefoot. Peter snuck a look at her bare toes, noted how adorably tiny and pink her toenails were, pictured himself washing and fingering each one in a bathtub full of suds. Then nearly slapped himself. Not now, he said to himself.

He heard her taking medication. He heard her use the toilet, washing, brushing her teeth. He sat like a statue, like he had no needs.

She emerged. "I'm ready for bed," she said, vulnerable as a child.

"OK," he said. "So go to bed," and stood, angling himself towards the door.

"No," she said. Simple, direct and complete. "Not alone."

His eyes met with hers, hangdog, lids hanging low. He considered. "I'll stay on your couch, if it helps."

Her eyes filled. Became huge. "You know the only thing that helps, Quinn. You know what it is." Her hands clenched, unclenched.

His resolve wavered. Of course he knew what she meant.

"If you want me to sleep in the same bed, I can do that, Carrie." He said it, as if he were a playground monitor, a prep-school test proctor.

"More than that," she said, desperately, and walked into her room, and fell into her bed, face down. Quinn extinguished the lights, and took off his shoes and socks. It had been a long fucking day for him too, and in a way he hoped she'd just fall asleep, pass out, what have you.

But no. As he stood there in the doorway, Carrie's eyes were wide on him.

"I can't sleep, Quinn. I fucked up, I fuck everything up. I fucked Saul. Please, Quinn, lay down with me," she pleaded. He was so sad for her, so sorry for Saul, so destroyed by the mess they were in. And so madly, deeply, truly in love with her. His heart ached. He didn't know what the right thing was anymore, though he try his best to do it.

"Carrie, I'll stay with you. But I don't know what you want, I don't know how to help. Did you take a sleeping pill?" he asked. He walked to the bed in the darkened room. He crawled up on the bed, lay next to her. Put his head next to hers, pillowed on his curled up arm.

"Quinn," she said, her use of his name a plea, a question, a statement, almost a prayer. "Help me," she sighed.

"Carrie," Quinn said, his voice grating in the lowest register, "you have to tell me what state of mind you're in. I'm not doing anything if you're not thinking straight. You remember last night, right?" Quinn's self-control was wearing maddeningly thin, but he knew that he'd have hell to pay if he took advantage of a mentally ill person tonight.

To her credit, Carrie sat up on her elbow. "I was sane enough today to sit in negotiations with the fucking Pakistanis, to sit there with Khan's eyes on me. I was sane enough to go to the Ops room and talk Saul through the mess and back into Taliban hands. Am I sane enough to decide what I want in my bedroom?" she asked, angrily. He reached out, stroked her hair, and pressed her head back into the pillow.

Oh, God, he thought, last thread of a chance. I'm going to do something, I just don't know fucking what.

"Ok," he said, "So you're in your right mind. What do you want from me?" he asked. It was a fair question. He didn't want to feel like a gigolo, or a hired stud. They were supposed to be friends, at the very least. And at the most, she should notice his unflagging concern, desire and love for her.

"Please," she said, softly. "Just make me come. So I can rest. Then hold me. OK?"

Quinn's blood pressure popped about 20 points in thirty seconds. He decided to take the least invasive route to her request, as the barrier broke. "OK, Carrie. But not without a kiss."

She looked pleased, leaning on the pillow, she looked pleased as a cat and she waited and watched as his face approached, as his shadow fell over her. His lips touched hers, then the kiss deepened, and held. Quinn's tongue opened Carrie's mouth, his hand touched her shoulder, but no other part of them made contact. She kissed him back fervently. It went on and on, the darkness of the Islamabad quarters shushing around them, the soft sound of the bedcovers as Quinn arranged himself on them, to give himself better access to her mouth, his heartbeat increasing, thumping, his hands controlling themselves so carefully, so that he wouldn't simply strip her and fuck her senseless, which was all over his mind to do. His lips told her what she needed to know, that this was a deliberate, intentional, meaningful kiss. There was no barroom lust in it, no moment of victory. He had been waiting to kiss her for two years, and the feeling he pressed into her lips, her mouth, was unmistakable. Her body responded and she relaxed into the bed under his weight. Anything he did at this point would have been fine with her, not just because she was manic and desperately in need of orgasm just to relax, but because she understood now – Quinn was in love with her. His reasons for following, being with her, protecting her, they were not collegial, they were not casual. He was falling through ethereal dimensions… and into her.

Finally, painfully, minutes later, Quinn broke the kiss and backed off a bit.

"I'll help you, Carrie," he said, but didn't say what that meant. She nodded, in complete trust. His hands went to her pajama pants and untied the string, then loosening them with a single finger, his eyes locked on hers, he pulled the ties straight up, then dropped them, and said, with the very last of his control, "This can only go so far, tonight."

She nodded and he sat up on the bed. Looming over her, he pulled her pajama pants and underpants down to around her knees, in a single intense yank. His eyes lorded over her light-colored bush, her pink labia, pictured so many times in his fantasies already, even in this half darkness, musky and beautiful. Already, her pungent smell rose from her panties, and as he leaned over her ominously, she hoped in some way that he'd lose his mind and just fuck her, fuck her until she was sore, fall asleep on top of her, in her. But he didn't. Quinn, the master of fucking control, sitting next to her on the bed, with her naked pussy next to him, did nothing more than lie down next to Carrie, on her right side, gather her body close using his left hand, kiss her cheek, and say, "Like this, ok?" And his fingers delved deep into her folds, into her pussy, and found her cleft wet and waiting. She gasped and turned her face into his shoulder.

"Yes, yes, yes, please, like that," she begged. His fingers found what they were looking for, her labia, her hood, they explored her, and they found her clit and decided the best way to stimulate her tiny center of pleasure, without overstimulating. Two long fingers, moving in circles, then back and forth, then around. His breath came quick and shallow, and he didn't know what else to say.

He rubbed, he massaged and kneaded, until her gasps came just at the right level of urgency, the speed of it, the ascent, her breath. He let go a moment and slapped her pussy, two, three, four times, like a spanking. "Is this good, is this what you want?" he asked.

Her answer was a cry of almost animal assent, and he resumed his caresses. She was so hot, that a matter of a few minutes later, and she was making repeated, soaring cries, almost bleating for mercy, her hands gripping his shirt to the point where she nearly tore it. She came and his hand was wet, so wet. Her eyes were filled with tears, and she kissed his cheek.

"Again, Quinn, again, please," she sobbed. It was more than he could stand, and so of course, he obliged her, more gentle this time in some ways, but deeper in others, since she was already so come out. She was soaking wet, and he shoved two fingers into her and found her g-spot this time, with his thumb rubbing back and forth over her clit. "This time, Carrie, this has to be enough," he said, and she came again. He kissed her lips, no tongue this time, just a kiss of sleep, almost of death, like a love-vampire sucking the last of her life out, as her second orgasm came, took her and put her directly into slumber.

Well, that worked, he thought to himself, distressed and pleased as he was, and as she had predicted. He stood up and examined her, then reached down and pulled her panties and pajama pants up. He turned her on her side, the pillow under her cheek, and wrapped the comforter over her. She had come, she was out, and there was no more danger. And, he hadn't fucked her. Amazing. What he had done, and what the consequences might be, he couldn't say and he wasn't sure he cared. Safely rolled into her bed, he kissed her on the cheek, and on the temple above the eyelid. Since she was sound asleep, he took the risk of saying what he felt – what he really felt about her. So softly, it wasn't even a whisper.

"Until I die, Carrie. Love you until I die."

He took his enormous, painful hardon into the bathroom, and pants around his ankles, finished himself off in one of the most intense orgasms of his life, so strong that his head swam and he nearly lost consciousness, sitting on the edge of Carrie's tub. He cleaned himself up, washed his face, and took two of her Tylenol. His hands washed, his pants loosened but on, he lay down shirtless next to her, and wrapping his body over her as he had done the night before, he went to sleep. He could still smell her on his fingers, as he snuggled her into the night.


	7. Chapter 7

They slept through most of the night without moving. At some point, Quinn felt the cold, and crawled under the covers with Carrie. When she felt his warmth and weight coming close, she turned into his body and put her arms around him. Her head lay upon his shoulder and he arranged the covers over both of them, kissing the top of her head before she fell back into a deep sleep.

He lay awake as her heat soaked into him, felt the softness of her hair, smelled her, felt the sweet burden of her head on his arm. At some point, it had started raining, and it was still raining hard. Quinn could hear the mutter of the raindrops as they poured over the roofs and gutters. He pulled her closer, felt her mumble something. It might have been "no," and it might have been "more," either way, she must have been dreaming.

Words, images, dreams of Quinn's past moved through his half-asleep mind, his near-dreaming state causing a lucid feeling of near-reality in some of the memories. They came and went as the features might pass in a night-cinema festival, one after the other. The time he had lost her in the condo, and Javadi's men had carried her off. The sickness in his stomach, his heart, when he saw her crushed iPhone, her discarded clothes on the floor – good God, had some of them been cut off? Apparently, they had. His rage, his helplessness, capped off by his conversation with Saul. "We lost her, she's alone," he'd said, and his feeling of utter failure about it, looking around her empty, devastated bedroom. He curled his arms around her more tightly, more protectively, at the memory. Never again. He'd never let his guard down like that. She had put herself out there for a purpose, and he had not been completely a part of the play, or it wouldn't have worked. But it didn't change his feeling, that he should has been able to do something more, something to make her safer. They never should have lost her on that play, but for some period of time, she'd been invisible to them.

Another ten minutes of rest, another mind-movie. The most recent one, the worst. The time in Islamabad that he'd been in the Jeep with Carrie, trying to pick up Sandy, get him out alive. The hostile crowd had made them, and Sandy had been pulled out and killed. He now knew, that was a coordinated op. But it didn't change how he felt about how it had gone down, or the myriad ways in which Carrie could have been hurt, or the hundreds of times he'd gone over all the failure modes in his head. How many times had he dreamed that he'd failed, that they'd gotten their hands on Carrie first? That he'd had to go into the crowd, shooting, until he was out of ammo, and retrieve her half naked form, breasts uncovered, nose and ears bleeding? If he'd been lucky, he'd have carried her out in his arms, the crowd focused on Sandy, Or worse, he failed altogether, and had to watch her stripped, raped and bludgeoned to death before his eyes, after which the bloodthirsty thugs would come after him next. In this, most horrible potential version, especially in his recurring nightmare, he simply falls to his knees next to her, and lets the crowd take him. If she died, what would have been the point of his own survival? The despair in these thoughts was palpable, even though it was just memory and imagination. Her eyes in these dreams, pleading, and so sad. "Quinn," she begged, broken and bloody. "How could you?"

In the present, in her soft bed, he pulled her closer again, so tightly that she stirred and he nearly woke her. He knew he was a neurotic mess of nightmares, but he couldn't help it. He kissed her temple, her ear, whispered again, low and soft, "Never, never, I'll never let it happen," his mouth a hot well of ecstasy, ready to bring her awake with a kiss. But she was tired, so very tired. And he didn't dare overstep – not yet. He wanted her trust, to thaw her love, to bring her close by her own desires, not with his seduction. But the daydreams remained, as did the comfort of her body next to his. For once, he knew she was safe.

He regarded her warm, delightful form pressed against him, better than any of his wishes or fantasies. It came to him, then, that this might be the best night of his life. After so much time, pain, and agony, and after so much denial, he finally now had touched her, been close to her, slept with her. He had given her pleasure. And now, he lay in the same bed with Carrie - someone he was so terribly fixated on that nearly his every thought was interrelated with her welfare. He wanted to stay awake – enjoy holding her, just be conscious for every minute possible that his arms were around her in the bed – in case in never happened again. But the exhaustion of the previous two days was persuasive, too. Her softness, the dark, and the sound of the rain beat his conscious mind back down.

He told himself; try to remember what this feels like. In case it never happens again. His eyes closed.

Gray light of dawn started to filter through the rain clouds at some ungodly early hour, and Quinn was the first to hear Carrie's iPhone going off next to the bed, vibrating loudly. She loosened herself from his snug grip – a tragedy in itself, as far as he was concerned – and then reached for the phone. Quinn's sharp eyes picked up the words, "Aasar Khan" on the caller ID, and he was instantly awake. Quinn was still livid with Khan's choice to keep Carrie at his home the night her drugs were switched, and he was still horribly conflicted and jealous that Khan might have…  _done_  something, taken advantage of her,  _touched_  her… he was immediately on full alert. Carrie sat up and answered the phone. He heard her speak:

"Hello? Yes."

Quinn didn't move in the dark, rigid and almost paralyzed, taking in the conversation. Was this a booty call? Carrie's voice came softly again, fretting, and tired:

"No, it's late. I'm in bed and I'm tired. Why can't this wait?"

OK, so, good. She wasn't glad to hear from him. He listened again as the mumbling on the other end of the line went on.

"Now?"

Quinn's stomach churned. He ought to grab the phone, put a stop to this. He wished he was Carrie's husband, and had the right to send off interlopers that dared interfere with her rest, with their peace and privacy. He'd become so proprietary about her in the last 12 hours that he almost scared himself.

"If it's that important, then, ok," she said, sounding weak and tired. She rang off. Sitting up, she turned on the light.

He hadn't moved, just looked at her, eyes wide open and bright with anger as soon as the light went on, like he hadn't been asleep at all.

"That was Aasar Khan," she said. She didn't sound guilty, scared or anything but sleepy. That was good.

"And?" Quinn said. Fewer words on his part almost always resulted in more words on other's parts, he'd learned that much.

"And he has something to tell me. Something that can't wait, and has to be told in person, in a secret location," she said.

Quinn sat up, shirtless, the bedsheet pooling around his waist. Carrie sat up next to him, in the bed. Her gray t-shirt, wrinkled, hung low in the front, giving Quinn a heart-rending glimpse of her soft breasts. All that fooling around, and I never got to kiss her breasts. I'll have to remedy that soon, he thought, feeling more and more territorial every minute.

She pulled the covers back, got up, and started to look in the closet, thinking about what to wear.

"Carrie," Quinn tried reasonably. "It's 5:00 AM. Anything he has to say to you can wait until 7:00 AM. And why not his offices?" He was being reasonable, he knew, but also knew that he just wanted her back in the bed for a few more hours, even if the only thing that happened was that he got to hold her.

"He said it's important and can't wait," she said, already in the closet where he couldn't see her. The gray pajama shirt came chucking out of the closet door, as did the pants. Shit. She must have been putting on quite a show in there, but only an asshole would peek. He consoled himself with watching her emerge a minute later in a white bra and powder-blue pantsuit bottoms, pulling on steel-grey stockings. An interesting amount of modesty to choose, considering what had happened last night, he thought. Not a manic "I don't care" level of nakedness, nor muffled up to the eyeballs in clothes, either. He liked that. It was casual. She sat on the bed, back to him. He noticed a tiny brown mole on the small of her back next to her waistband, and it was all he could do not to tackle her, kiss it, and disrobe her entirely, making her start over. Considering what he'd use his mouth and tongue to do, before re-dressing her himself, fussily, every snap, strap and hair in order, just with a flush of satisfaction on her cheeks, maybe even the bloom of a genuine smile for once. He grinned at the thought. Then, sobered up, remembering why she was getting dressed in the first place.

"OK, Carrie, if you say so. But you're not going alone," he said. He might be Mother-Hen in Chief, but no matter what name one gave Quinn, he was her protector, a one-man killing show with a watchful nature that would permit no idlers even close to Carrie or anyone else he was assigned to. "I'll get dressed too, go with you. I'll shadow you," he said.

Carrie was back in the closet, then emerged with a cream-colored blouse and flowered scarf. She tossed the scarf on the bed, and then turned to Quinn, facing him as she buttoned the blouse, and knotted the scarf around her neck. He approved of the way she was dressing, at least in terms of her mental health. She wasn't acting manic in the least, she was covering up, not going for the black spangled things, he thought. She looked at him, concerned, as he unapologetically ogled her as she dressed.

"He said to come alone," Carrie objected.

Quinn got out of bed, frowned at her. "He'll never know I'm there," he said. "And if you carry the purse wire I got you, he'll never know I'm listening, either. You'll be safer, Carrie."

And remind me to pack my silencer, too, in case I need to see that motherfucker off, he thought to himself. She looked at him, and nodded.

"Ok, then. Come back in ten minutes. And you have to stay out of sight."

Quinn darted back to his apartment, dressed hurriedly, and prepared himself as if for a major covert assault. He layered on the weaponry, brought up and tested the small pen-shaped listening device he intended that she carry with her, and then added a few extras he'd prefer she not know about. The Walther, in his leg holster. The Berretta 9mm in his shoulder holster. And a set of brass knuckles, in the pocket of a jacket- you can never have too much backup. He pulled a black jacket over everything and roughed his hair, then shoved a black stocking cap over it.

He went back to Carrie's apartment, knocked twice.

"About time. He's waiting," she scolded, looking at his dark, dangerous and ragtag appearance.

He gave her a dark look, pushed inside, and shut the door behind him. Reaching out he grabbed the lapel of her gray suit jacket, and pulled her close. He tucked the pen-shaped listening device into the inside of her suitcoat pocket, and then patted it back over her breast, softly. He pressed the earpiece in, and walked into her bedroom, ready to test it.

"Say something," he said.

Carrie impatiently pacing, said, "Testing, one, two, three, and don't pat my boob, Quinn," she complained.

He walked back out of the bedroom, eyeballed her face with a cheerfully raised eyebrow. She had been smiling. That was good, too. He smiled back, "Loud and clear, Mathison. Let's go," Quinn said.

Just before opening the door, he put a hand to her deltoid, stopped her. She turned directly to him, her eyes made contact with his, and the intensity of the previous night came back to them both, a dead heat connecting them, now.

"So," Quinn said, wanting to broach the topic, but not having the slightest idea how to bring it up, afraid it would just disappear into the sands of time if he didn't say something soon.

"So," he tried again, "Are we good?"

Carrie's eyes softened. Her need for hurry was set aside, just for a moment, as she looked at Quinn's face. Even in her most oblivious state, she was beginning to understand just what she meant to him – and how much she liked it that way. For lack of a better idea, she took her hand in his. Put his palm to her cheek, and kissed it. "Yeah, we're good," she said, quietly. "I won't forget what you did last night," her eyes, less desperate now, softer, and more gentle.

He wanted to talk more, ask more, and God knew, do so much more. But it would have to wait, that would have to be enough. 'You better not," was the best he could come up with. She smiled wanly, still so tired.

Again, she started for the door, and he stopped her again, this time, as deadly serious as a freight train howling through a country station late at night. She saw the glint in his eye, remembered what he was trained to do.

He made her look at him, and said, "You make the slightest indication that Khan's not on the up and up, I'm going to kill him," Quinn said. She said nothing for a minute. He held her gaze, and realized she was waiting for him to justify this statement.

"He  _touched_  you," Quinn said, still gripping her bicep. She reached up quickly, kissed him along the jawline, making him shiver.

"I know, Quinn. But I wasn't myself. And he didn't go very far," she said.

It wasn't quite enough for Quinn, but for the time being, it'd have to be. The warmth of her kiss on his skin made it alright, for now. He opened the door, and let her out.

They went out into the night, Carrie with a large umbrella, Quinn simply disappearing into the rain like a shadow.


	8. Chapter 8

Carrie walked quickly down an Islamabad side-street into the downpour. She held the umbrella handle close to her chest, and considered the damp and cold as compared to the haven of comfort she had just come from. She couldn't see Quinn, but she knew he was there, somewhere. A thousand times in the past she'd cursed her job, the sacrifices it demanded, nothing but one break after the other in the normal human rhythm of life, but tonight's interruption was brutal in a way she hadn't experienced before – she and Quinn had…. made a pair, somehow. The previous night's sexual encounter had been so brief, and so potentially impersonal, that she was almost in a position to ignore it. God knew she had fucked men and just walked away in the past. But something about it, the way he touched her, held her and talked to her; she wasn't going to be able to just walk away from this one. The way he'd asked if they were good. Maybe for the first time in her life, she really was into something good. And she didn't want to walk away. Quinn's touch, his care, his kiss and obvious affection had awakened something in her, something that had been sleeping.

Especially, the time after, she thought, the quiet sleep together. The time and peace he'd given her, by giving her a moment of relief from her mania, by being there after she came and holding her while she slept, that was something extraordinary. She might have been able to leave off and walk from a purely sexual event, but there was nothing unattached about the way Quinn treated her, the way he spoke, and the way his hand stroked her lower back as she got up out of bed that morning, when she went to get dressed to meet Khan. There was nothing the least bit circumspect about it. He wanted to seize her shirt, pull her back, hold her down in bed and finish the job. She could feel it on him, smell it. She had felt it in his kiss. The miracle was how he contained it, how he  _didn't_  do it somehow. She didn't understand his self-control. And now, here he was, off in some unidentifiable place in the rain, unseen by her, but undoubtedly able to see and hear all, no doubt armed to the teeth, watching her meet with Khan, if he should show up. Khan had certainly sounded like he was intent on meeting, like it was very important.

Carrie walked up flight of stairs, around a ramp, and into a nearly completely empty parking garage, tromping up the steps into the dark, and waited in the appointed spot. A moment later, Aasar Khan appeared, neat as a pin in a black trenchcoat, looking sober, quiet and somewhat perplexed. Not a hair out of place. Carrie eyeballed him, considered Saul, the Talibs, the whole clusterfuck of a day, and let him have it, as if he were the sole target.

"Well," Carrie started, "You won." Her eyes needled him.

"Did we?" he asked, somewhat sadly. His dark eyes regarded her like a puppy-dog.

Carrie had no patience for dancing around the issue in this pre-dawn meeting, she had been yanked out of a warm bed with Quinn, which had been quite pleasant, and told she needed to come for some important purpose.

"You said you had something to tell me," she said.

"What happened to you, the other night, with the drugs," Khan said, "it wasn't me."

Carrie glared at him. "You said that already," she said.

"I know," he conceded.

"More than once," she pointed out, feeling the cold, the damp, feeling pissed off and wondering where Peter was.

"I need you to believe me," Khan implored. He moved closer to Carrie, somehow hoping to warm the cold dampness between them by standing nearer to her pale beauty.

Hidden several cars off in the car park, completely concealed from view by either party, hovered Quinn, soaked to the skin, earpiece in and listening carefully. Silent. He had not, as yet, drawn a weapon, but the idea of watching this conversation through a set of cross-hairs held a strong appeal.

Quinn listened, heart thumping, as Carrie stated that she did believe him. "Because I remember. Not everything, but enough." Khan stood closer still, almost close enough to touch her. Carrie conceded another bit of memory, and said, "The part at the end. With you."

As if it was possible for Quinn's heart to beat more jealously, or faster. What fucking part at the end? What about "with him?" His hand itched for his Walther. He had a high-quality silencer on it, only about 4 and half inches long. But it was extremely effective. There'd be no echo, no muzzle flash, just a quick thump as Khan's body hit the pavement.

He snapped out of his murderous fantasy long enough to overhear the next, and most important part. Khan told Carrie. "It was Dennis Boyd switched your pills. The ambassador's husband. He's working against you. And that's all I can say," Khan finished.

Quinn's heart dropped into his stomach, and from the look on Carrie's face, she felt the same. Khan and Carrie stood there a moment longer, the continuous rainfall shushing around them, and neither said anything for a long moment.

"I know it was a risk for you to come here, and tell me this. So thank you," Carrie finally managed.

Khan looked at her face, seemingly anxious to find some other way to engage her. But she was now bursting with purpose, and Quinn could see that she'd soon be on her way back to the Embassy compound, to use the new information. He could hardly wait, himself.

"I'm going to head back," she said, and putting up her umbrella, and without another word to Khan, turned her back on him and headed down the ramp into the rain. Khan warred with himself momentarily – he wanted to say something, follow her, touch her. Quinn could see it, because he always felt that way himself. Fortunately for Aasar Khan, his propriety and training won out, and he left the garage by a different direction a moment later, walking briskly.

As soon as Quinn was sure he wouldn't be made, he followed after Carrie, again, into the rain and into the shadows. He was a moment or two catching up, but still stayed where he wouldn't be seen, by her or anyone else. Still, she had to know he was close. She wasn't walking that fast, and after they were a block or two away from the parking garage, Carrie said, "Did you fucking catch all that? Fuck, Quinn!"

She got closer to embassy territory and started to hustle. Even in this rain, the street hustlers were out, some setting up legitimate newspaper stands and tobacco kiosks, others just loitering around. Carrie hurried past a group of them and around a corner, then passed a couple of idlers, eager for distraction, maybe metabolizing last night's round of smoked opium, and one of them leered at Carrie's uncovered blonde head under the umbrella. She hurried on, into the rain and dark. She was glad Quinn was near, the whole situation had spooked the fuck out of her.

Out of the recess created by a doorway to a closed shop, a dusky skinned man with red eyes, leaned out, said something obscure in Urdu to Carrie, but it had very indecent overtones indeed. He seemed to be trying to entice her back into the shadow of the overhang, for a little action of the sort that one expects from Western women with uncovered heads, out at this hour of the night. Carrie shook his hand off her hair, her arm, and hurried on without looking back. Less than a few seconds later, she heard Quinn's voice say something she couldn't quite make out – but then she heard "asshole" and the meaty thump of a hefty body hitting the concrete. Moments later, he caught up to her, and walked side by side. She held the umbrella over both their heads.

"Hurt your knuckles?" she asked, as he waved his right hand in the air briefly.

"Nope. Brass," he said, showing her his little Irish knuckle dusters.

She put her arm around his waist, and he around hers – of course, Quinn keeping his gun hand free. They walked as quickly as they could together back to the Embassy. A day of prisoner exchanges, a new bit of information about where the fucking leak had been coming from… Dennis Boyd! So much to do – it had already been a big day, and the sun wasn't even up.

"Glad you were here, Quinn," she said, gratefully.

"You're going to learn eventually, Carrie," he said, keeping them moving, looking around.

"What's that," she said, almost out of breath, at the pace they were moving.

"That I'm  _always_  there."


	9. Chapter 9

Carrie and Quinn had hurried back to the embassy, and each darted off to their own private quarters, Quinn to change into business clothes, Carrie to grab her briefcase and laptop. It was now almost 7:00 and the embassy was waking up. The first order of business would be to inform Lockhart that they had found the source of the leak – and also to inform the unfortunate Ambassador that the leak was her husband, Dennis Boyd. Carrie and Quinn met up again in the control room, and using Dennis Boyd's login times, they were able to show that some of the private briefs that had made their way into Pakistani hands could only have been accessed by Dennis, from his wife's computer. During these certain time frames, he was the only person in the Ambassadorial residence, or in Martha's office, and so it could only have been him.

Very shortly thereafter, Martha Boyd, Andrew Lockhart, John Redmond, Quinn and Carrie were in the secure room. Carrie presented the information as it had been given to her by Aasar Khan, along with her pages of proof. She noted that there were almost certainly other ways – fingerprints from her quarters, for example - to prove that Khan was right. At this point, Carrie said, Khan had nothing to gain by lying to the Americans.

"He actually risked his life to give Dennis up," she pointed out. Quinn contained himself, as his feelings about Khan were so conflicted. He had no doubt been improper with Carrie's person, but she was right – if the ISI power structure found out about Aasar giving up Dennis to the Americans, it was probably Khan's head on the chopping block - maybe literally. On the other hand, it was also highly probable that Khan knew exactly who inside his organization was running Dennis Boyd. He hadn't volunteered that information. It was probably too dangerous, or, he could be playing them. It was impossible to know.

The look on the Ambassador's face was somewhere between disbelief and disgust – it was sad how easy it was to convince her of the fact that her husband had been such a worm, had probably been the leak all the way back to Sandy's time, and that his information had been what had caused so much trouble. Information Dennis leaked was going to cause more misfortune in the future, undoubtedly, but none of them knew what that would look like. It made Carrie shudder.

Interestingly, Martha turned first to John Redmond. "Did he ever mention anything like this to you?" she asked.

John was not put off by being asked. He thought for a moment, and he considered it a fair question. John and Dennis had been drinking buddies, at least superficially, though mostly their relationship had consisted of Dennis going out drinking alone and John being sent by Martha to bring him back, after his marathon barstool sessions. Martha actually preferred sending Quinn on these drunken-husband retrieval jobs, because Quinn tended to stay controlled, not drink, and just encourage Dennis to return home. When she sent Redmond, he had a tendency to sit down and indulge himself for a while, before bringing her husband home. But, this meant that John might have heard things Quinn hadn't.

Nobody doubted Redmond's loyalty, though. And although he and Carrie had gotten off to a rough start, John had adapted to the territory and shown himself to be a reliable "lifer" kind of C.I.A. case officer, someone who simply wanted to serve his country, and had been doing the job for so long that his daily tasks of spycraft were second nature.

"No. Nothing that I can remember," he said.

"Still," said Carrie, "You're his best friend in this room. Can you wire up, go talk to him first? Let's soft-soap the inquiries and see if he admits it to you. If he doesn't, then we'll sweat him. After that, we'll bring out the big guns," she said, looking at Martha. Martha Boyd nodded, looking sick.

"OK," Lockhart said. "We have a plan. And I have other news, regarding the prisoner exchange," he said.

"We intend to get Saul back alive," continued Lockhart, "But we've obtained some unexpected wiggle room in the schedule, which we're going to use. During this time, we'll see if we can't get some better intel on Haqqani, some more drone coverage over his location. Maybe even some boots on the ground. And the best part is, we didn't have to cook up a story ourselves."

"So where did this wiggle room come from?" Carrie asked.

Lockhart chuckled. "It is  _very_  convenient. There's been a credible Anthrax threat, you see, at the secure location where the Taliban leaders are being kept. Even better, it came from their own guys," he said.

"What?" Carrie laughed, incredulous.

"Yeah, the idea was to scare the shit out of the American troops, but all they've done is put a cramp in Haqqani's prisoner exchange plans. We have at least 72 more hours while those five scumbags are being held in Quarantine. One of them, Faysal Ahmad, even has a  _fever_ ," Lockhart finished triumphantly. Martha smiled, a weak smile, but it was something to feel a little optimistic about.

"Haqqani must be livid," Redmond observed.

"Maybe the fuckers really did give themselves Anthrax," Quinn said, hopeful.

"I doubt it," Lockhart said, "There's 'flu going around that cell block. But it buys us some time," he said.

"Won't this endanger Saul?" asked Martha.

Lockhart snorted. "I don't see how he'll be in more danger for the next 72 hours than he already is. Besides, Haqqani knows that the threat is credible, because it came from his side of the fence. So, we have a clear delay in the prisoner exchange. But we need to use our time wisely," he finished.

"I'm going to get on Dennis," John said. "I'll have Max wire me up."

Lockhart and Martha nodded and stood. "I'll be waiting in my offices to hear from you personally, John," she said. "And can we have my office re-swept for bugs as well?" The moue of disgust on her face indicated that she knew she'd been sleeping with a puff adder for the last twenty years… the only question was what to do with him.

"We've been up all night," Carrie pointed out, not quite truthfully, "chasing Khan around. So I think Quinn and I are going to grab a few hours," she said.

Lockhart nodded. "You can take 12 hours, and unless there's some vital new information found around leaks, we'll let you get some rest." The group adjourned from the secure room, and each went their separate ways.

Except Carrie and Quinn, who headed for quarters.

On their way up in the elevator, they leaned against opposite walls, and just stared at each other. Neither said a thing until the elevator door opened.

"I'm going to grab a shower," Quinn said. He was half hopeful that she'd come and join him, but all she said was, "OK."

Quinn swallowed as he approached the door of his apartment. "At some point," he said, "Can we talk?"

Carrie's eyes were big on his, as she unlocked her door. She nodded, said nothing for a moment. Then, she gave a slight smile, and said, "Yeah." They went into their respective places and shut themselves in.

Quinn stripped off and soaped up in the shower, washing his hair. He gave some thought to the previous 48 hours of craziness. He had spent so much time in the past just watching Carrie, watching out for her, and now it seemed like these last few days of strangeness and stress had finally imposed real intimacy on them. She relied on him now, in ways she hadn't before. The Agency, and the situations they'd found themselves in previously, had matched them up seemingly at random. But they were still working together now, by choice. Working together, almost living together, at least in some ways. And last night had exploded everything they thought they understood about each other, with the closeness between them entirely new, but also very welcome. It was more than proximity - he could tell, there was real affection on her side, now. It was about time.

It wasn't all due to some manic-episode on her behalf, either. She had been leveled out on her meds for a day or so and was apparently making sane decisions again. If she asked for his… attention… in her current state, she was in her right mind, and at least he wouldn't feel like he was taking advantage.

But when he said, "Can we talk," he really had meant they needed to talk. He needed Carrie to know that there was nothing temporary about his feelings, or his intentions. That he was there for her as a man, and strictly on the up and up. If there was to be something beyond a little fooling around, she needed to know that it wouldn't be a one-time thing for him. Not even close. He wasn't about to start a casual relationship with someone he was obsessively in love with, only to have her walk off and into another man's arms a few weeks later. If he couldn't start something real with her, he wouldn't start at all. This is how he had kept his iron control over the years. If she wasn't into it, it wasn't worth it for him. He wanted her buy-in, head first and completely, with at least some kind of eye for the future. Even if the eye for the future only consisted of her promising not to fuck other guys. It would be a start, anyway.

Just as he was turning the shower off, he heard a click, and another kind of sound as well, out in his apartment. If hadn't given Carrie a key, he would have really jumped. Well, maybe she came to get a few ice cubes. Still, he wished he had his Beretta in the bathroom with him. He quickly wrapped a huge white bath towel around his waist, and stepped, still dripping, out of the bathroom.

Sure enough, it was Carrie. She had let herself in, shut and locked the door behind her, and was lying on his bed. She wasn't wearing anything provocative - just black yoga pants and a black v-neck. But her pale blonde beauty laid out on his bed would have excited him, even if she'd been wearing the most unflattering granny-gown known to man. It was the package, not the presentation, he thought to himself, becoming steadily more aroused. She was lying on the bed facing away from the bathroom, but when she heard him come out, she rolled over to face Quinn.

"Hi," she said. She already looked sleepy.

"Hello, yourself," he said. He went back into the bathroom, got another towel and dried off his hair and upper body. He came back out into the bedroom, and inspected Carrie. She didn't look manic, she looked sleepy and trusting. Good, he liked her that way.

"Lockhart said to get some sleep," she said. "And I realized that I never slept so well in my life, as I did last night with you."

"Is that so," Quinn said, noncommittal.

Quinn went to his dresser, turned his back, and dropped the towel. He felt her eyes on him. Fine. If she was going to invade his privacy, let her see a little man-butt. Besides, his hard-on was so engorged at the moment, that it could almost be used as a towel rack, and she'd probably feel better if he was wrapped up a little more. He pulled on the loosest pair of boxers he could find, and dug in the next drawer down for a t-shirt. He pulled it over his head, and then walked back over to his bed, where Carrie lay, staring up at him.

He lay down next to her. "I never slept so well, either," he said. "As when  _you_  were there last night." While not precisely the truth – in fact he hadn't slept much at all – he found it intensely pleasurable to hold her and know she was with him.

They were lying side by side, facing each other, heads on pillows about 12 inches apart. Quinn's erection pulsed and twitched, but she didn't look at it. She looked at Quinn's eyes.

"Something's different," Carrie said. "I can't say what it is, Quinn. I've never been good at this stuff."

She reached out; put a hand on his chin, his freshly-shaven cheek. "I haven't forgotten what you did for me. You could have taken advantage, but you didn't," she finished. Quinn reached up and covered her hand with his, pressed it to him.

"Yes," he said. "Something's different. Let's sleep first and talk about it after." He tried to sound reassuring, comforting, though what he was really thinking about doing was pulling her close, and finally starting his lovemaking. After all the waiting, his muscles trembled at the thought.

Carrie looked at him closely, tried to read his face. She smiled, and turned her back, and said, "OK. After we sleep."

He nestled her close against him, and felt her body relax, felt her breathing slow and even out. She wiggled her shapely butt back into his hard-on. The minx. One of these days, he swore to God.

To his own surprise, he was sound asleep himself a few minutes later.


	10. Chapter 10

Quinn and Carrie slept for more than three hours, which felt like a luxuriously long time, given their current state of stress and exhaustion. Quinn was the first to awaken. It was mid-morning, judging by the quality of the light spilling into his bedroom window. He got up out of bed, turning behind him to fold a blanket over Carrie. He brushed her hair back off her forehead gently, and when she didn't stir, he went into the kitchen to scare up some nourishment.

He had just finished making black tea and toasting some bread, when he heard her waking. She rolled around and stretched, enjoying the feeling of comfort and quiet. It had been a long time since they had a break, and even though they both knew it was a short one, it was rest enough that it felt like a vacation.

Carrie sat up in bed and propped herself on a pillow. Quinn walked over to her, and handed her a buttered slice of toast, and a hot mug of tea. "I put sugar in it," he said.

"Good, that's what I like," she said, sipping it, eyeing him gratefully over the mug.

He sat cross legged on the end of the bed, facing her, and for a while, they just munched away at breakfast and sipped tea. Neither of them felt compelled to say anything. And God knew nothing work-related jumped to mind that felt more important than this rare moment of intimacy. It was the first time Carrie had felt decent in weeks. And he wanted her completely mentally alert for what he wanted to say next.

When they had finished eating, he took the plates and mugs back into the kitchen.

"I tried not to get crumbs in your bed, Quinn," Carrie joked.

"Good," he said, "Because you'd only be hurting yourself." He smiled at her significantly. She smiled back but said nothing else.

He sat back down on the foot of the bed, and looked at her.

"You awake? Feeling ok now?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said. "Really good."

"Good," Quinn said shortly. "Because like I said, we have to talk. And I want your whole mind here with me while you listen. And, I want any answers you give me to be, well, careful." He was so nervous that he felt queasy. Even though she seemed so receptive, there was a chance that she'd hear him declare his feelings, listen to his proposal of exclusivity, and just laugh in his face. God, he hoped he had read her right. He didn't think he could take that.

"Okay," she said, expectantly, looking at him sideways. He was making this chat sound a little ominous. But then, they had had a heavy night.

"Carrie," Quinn began, "you say you won't forget what happened last night. And I believe you. But I want you to know there's a reason why we didn't…" his words fell off into quiet, not knowing how to finish.

"You mean, why you didn't make love to me?" she asked plaintively. "I wanted you to, Quinn. I could feel you wanted to. Why didn't you? I was thinking clearly last night." He almost couldn't look at her. Carrie at her most seductive, now literally was throwing herself at him. After all his fantasies, and so many years of feeling unnoticed and lost in the shuffle, here she was in his bed, asking "why not?" Jesus Christ. He felt like he might be going crazy.

"Because, Carrie, I'm not here for you to use, just to scratch an itch," he said. He saw her recoil and sniff, and realized he'd put it a little too bluntly. Oh, Quinn, you shithead, he told himself. Get this right. Damnit, it's the way he was made, though. The words just came out. He reached over, tried to soften what he meant to say. He put a hand on the ankle of her curled-up leg.

"What I mean is, if you and I… if you and I become... lovers, it won't be casual for me," he stammered out. "I can't make love to you one night, and then just turn it off the next. Because I don't feel casual about you. And I haven't for a long time," he stated.

He went quiet, and watched her. His eyes were intensely on her face, trying to read meaning there. God, her eyes were so huge, so blue. He thought she looked amazed. Whatever offense he had given by suggesting she was using him to scratch an itch, was now blown away by his statement, leaving something more like wonder. He could see it. He looked at her face, her golden hair hanging in glorious bed-fluff on either side of her sculpted cheekbones. He waited, because he wanted her to speak next.

"So what  _do_  you feel, Quinn?" she asked. She put her hand over his, down on her ankle, realizing how hard this was for him to say, knowing what amount of emotional currency it cost him to say it. Also, she realized that she was ready to hear it, and that she was dying to hear him open up.

"Carrie," he said, his voice trembling a bit, "What I feel is… if you reach out to me, and open up those floodgates, then I'm going to make love to you. And when I do, there's no closing that door back up again. I won't be able to  _stop_  having those feelings for you. I can't say that I'll be able to control myself, do you understand? If this breaks loose," he said, gesturing to indicate his head, his heart, his erection, "It doesn't all just go back the way it was," he finished.

He looked barely controlled. He was trembling with passion. She was ready to throw herself into his arms, but she could see he still wasn't done talking.

"If you and I are… together..." Quinn said, "then I can't have you with anyone else. I won't be able to tolerate it. I want you very badly; Carrie Mathison, but I won't share you." He was looking down at the bedspread, seemingly embarrassed by his passionate declaration. "I've been dedicated to you for years, in other ways, and now…"

Carrie had heard enough. She didn't say anything, but crawled over the bed, and got into Quinn's lap. She put her arms around his shoulders, kissed him on the neck below the ear. His arms came around her, tight and quick. He  _had_  always been there for her. She understood how terribly possessive he must feel about her, and felt she had to reassure him. As far as she was concerned, there really was nobody else she'd be interested in. But  _he_  didn't have any way of knowing that.

"Finish saying it, Quinn," she said. "Say it all." She felt him lift her whole body, and turn her, so she was straddling his seated form. She wrapped arms and legs around him then, and felt him speaking into her ear. His voice grew quieter, shaky, and she did not miss the fact it felt like he had a heat-seeking missile in his shorts.

"If you want me, you get all of me. And I want the same back from you," he said, caressing her back. Her chin dug into his shoulder, her hot breath down the back of his t-shirt distracting the hell out of him. "I don't need you to say you'll marry me, or make any other kinds of promises. We don't know enough about our futures to say that. Just say…" he trailed off, then reached around and got himself a soft handful of her hair, pulled her back where he could see her. "Just say you'll be mine," he said. "Say you'll be mine, Carrie, and I'll make everything else happen for you, I promise." He tugged at her glorious mane, gave himself access to her throat, and kissed her in the hollow there.

"Oh, Quinn," she sighed, as his lips started working their way down her neck. "I don't want anyone else," she said.

"Carrie, there's something else, after that, I promise to... do more, and talk less," he murmured into the hollow of her throat.

Her eyes shut, already feeling light as a feather, almost high, from Quinn's arms around her. His tremulous words were about to be set aside for a much more visceral experience, and she was ready. My God, how long had he been repressing this? He must have inhibited so much feeling, so much desire. How had he hidden it? Or had she simply been blind?

He pulled her back, making sure she could see his eyes, which were now lit with liberated fire, and almost navy blue with lust.

"I want to warn you. Once I start, you might not be able to stop me," he cautioned.

"I won't want you to," she said.

He smiled wickedly, and then pushed her back onto the bed, lay on top of her, crushing her with his weight. "If you're sure," he said, breathlessly.

"Yes," she said simply.

Now Quinn was done being careful. His lips met hers, and everything he had just said went from statement to promise. His desire was a flood so intense that felt almost like rage, a mental spasm. She was blown away by the power of his feeling, and it struck her again how restrained he had been the night before, because he certainly wasn't controlled now. Not at all, she thought, feeling his hands go under her shirt, squeeze her breasts briskly, greedily.

Inside the apartment, the time for words was over. Carrie found herself loose and abandoned out into the heart of a hurricane, with the eye right in the middle of Quinn's bed. He had pressed her back into the soft coverlet, and avidly felt around under her clothing, but only for a moment. Then he grunted, the sound a man might make at the beginning of a long marathon, and began disrobing her impatiently. There was no more talking, and he hadn't been kidding about her not being able to stop him. His long-suppressed passion had simmered over, and he raged and fumed at every item of clothing between them, not stopping until they were both completely naked. Then he sat back up, kneeling, and picked Carrie up under the arms, lifting her like she weighed nothing. His prick stood up below her like the branch of a tree, and she sucked in her breath as she dangled there.

"First, I'll have you," he breathed, savagely. "Then, next time, I'll make you come." He raised her, her legs open, over his swollen organ, which had been hard and at the ready through the entire conversation. "And the next time, and the next," he groaned. Her mouth was open, astonished, to find that he was going to enter her already. He immediately pressed her folds onto his cock, forced her down hard, not even checking to see if she was wet, as if he owned her, body and soul. She was already so aroused that he didn't hurt her, though she gasped at the feeling, the roughness of it. He felt huge, and she was completely filled. She grabbed at Quinn, accepting the storm of his passion, like she was a drowning swimmer, and he, the lifeguard come to save her. Maybe he was.

"Q-Quinn..." she moaned. Before a moment passed, he was all the way inside her, she sitting down completely on his cock, which was so rigid and ready that he felt like a piece of firewood about to split her in two. His head came down and he bit her neck, seeming to want to feed on her beauty, and she cried out helplessly. Carrie was terribly vulnerable against the size of him, against the strength of his built-up lust, and she understood his warning, now. But she didn't want to stop him, even if she could have. She was speared on him, being fucked, and felt completely weightless in his arms. His mouth finally let go of her neck, leaving an even pink love-bite there, and then he began using the strength of his arms to move her up and down on his cock.

"Now, Carrie," he said, voice unsteady. "Now, you're mine. I get to have you. And you get to see what it's like to be well and truly fucked. I've been waiting…and wondering… at how tight you'd feel," he moaned. He bounced her in his lap, each thrust going as deep as possible, so she could feel his balls hitting her ass on each downstroke. His hand went down and his thumb found her clitoris, pressed the hood to the side, pressed it up and down, finding her rhythm again, as he had the night before. "I remember, this is what you like, isn't it," he breathed. He fucked her sitting up, lifting her up and down on his prick with one strong arm, while the other hand worked her center. She felt out of control already, and the heat was only building.

She had had no idea he felt this strongly about her. He was overwhelmed, ecstatic. He made her feel so desirable and so loved. This is what it had all meant; she understood now, all his shadowing, all his new door locks, all the late night phone calls. He kissed her neck again, soothing the bitten spot, and then began to moan her name. He found he couldn't hold back, and before she even came close to climaxing, his orgasm burst over him, and he poured himself into her. He didn't pull out, but held her down tight, pressing her onto his softening prick. Still keeping a slow rhythm. He buried his face in her neck, and held her down, constrained. He wouldn't let her go.

"Carrie, you're mine," he sighed.

She kissed him on the shoulder, waiting for him to release her. But he didn't. He lay her on her back without removing himself, and before a minute or two went by, he was hard again. And began to thrust.

"My God, Quinn," she laughed, tears in her eyes, "Are you 18 years old?" She couldn't believe it, but yes, he was hard as a rock again. He had her on her back now, she wrapped her legs around his waist and soon after that, he began to move inside her body at a different pace. He was deep within, but moving much slower, twisting his hips and looming over Carrie's trembling white form, as if he meant to fuck her forever, keep her for himself as a private pleasure.

"I'm not so young. It's just you, Carrie. I've been waiting so long to touch you. I won't be able to stop, you see?" He kissed her lips, his tongue moving slowly too, entering her, her mouth being ravaged by his in the same way - and at the same pace - that his cock was ravaging her pussy. She opened herself, gave herself to him. Moaned into his mouth, as he fucked her. His right hand came around again, and he used his fingers to work her, pulsing her quivering labia, making her even more wet for him, though she was already soaked from their first time.

He moved in slow until he was completely within her, pressing on her innermost boundary, and stayed deep. He was still for a moment, just pressing down on her clit with his fingers. His cock and hand stayed motionless on her nether lips in a way that made her want to yelp, to wiggle, make him continue stimulating her. He wouldn't be influenced, though she did call out a few times, nearly begging. Instead he stopped her mouth with kisses, and continued to govern the pace of their movement together. Moved his lips to her ear, and her hair, whispered comforting things to her. "Soon, but not yet, baby," he sighed. She could feel his love in those words, those kisses, she could feel everything he had said was true. He would not be able to stop feeling like this at anyone's convenience, and this was no itch being scratched. He might possess her, but he belonged to her, too.

Their second round was unhurried, more gentle, even a little indolent as Quinn restrained the pace. He did not want to come too fast, he did not want to pull out of her, he did not want it to end. He brought her right up to the edge, then, sensing the change in her breath and her voice, he stopped touching her with his fingers, and just went back to the slow fucking and stillness he'd been at for most of the session.

She finally started to beg him to be more vigorous, finish her off, and he took the cues from her body, stopped his dreamy pace and started to stroke into her harder. They hadn't moved out of their original man-on-top position, and she was lucky she was flat on her back, because when her orgasm took her, all the blood left her head as she shuddered and cried out. She saw the world turn gray and fill with stars for a minute, the only reality in her world, Quinn's lips and his cock.

She made a high sound that he didn't recognize as a word, he had made her come hard, so hard. His body was still working inside of hers, and her orgasm brought his on again. He filled her, filled her to overflowing with himself, forcing her to so much pleasure that she didn't remember her name, except that he kept whispering it in her ear.

"My Carrie," he whispered. She sighed. He was finally going soft, had relaxed his body down into hers on the silky bedcover. He appeared to be getting ready to get off of her, and pull out, but she reached down and held onto his bottom. Pushed him back in, kissed him on the lips, nearly crying with the emotion of it all.

"Not yet, not yet," she sighed. He was still for another minute and just lay there, feeling her vagina squeezing him as her orgasm tapered off and left her breathless. She had felt, tasted and smelled every bit as good as she had in all of his dreams and fantasies. She was willing, and understood his love for what it was. He reluctantly slipped out of her, lay to one side, one of his hands stroking her hair.

"It's ok," he whispered, kissing her cheek, and near her ear. "We'll do it again. And again," he said.

She gave a sort of sobbing sigh, and said, "I didn't know, Quinn." He understood what she meant. He had been so controlled over the years, she couldn't have known just how deep his feelings ran. She turned and pressed her face into his shoulder, and he held her close, just like that, for a long while.

Finally, he made himself get up. He brought his damp towel to the edge of the bed, and parted her legs while she watched him dreamily. He reached down and cleaned her body off, lovingly wiped his seed off her pussy and the inside of her thighs, moving gently. At some point he hit a sore spot, a place where her opening was raw from his vigorous attention, and she sucked in her breath. Setting the towel aside, he knelt next to the bed, pulled her body to him, and inspected her pussy lips closely. She flushed with desire and embarrassment, as he looked at her, face inches away from her privates, and his fingers touched her there, exploring. "I made you sore," he said, regret in his voice. "I'm sorry."

A tear rolled down her cheek at the look on his face, his disquiet at her minor sex injury, their intimate posture, the concerned angle of his head. The fact that he was madly in love with her was as clear as the sunlight flowing in the window. She felt a rushing in her heart, too, something huge, something everlasting.

"It's ok," she said. "I liked it."

He stopped his examination. Standing up, and pulling back the covers, he helped her into the bed.

"We could both use some more sleep," he said, getting in next to her.

"Quinn, what happens now?" she asked.

He turned her on her side, facing away from him, and held her close, the way she liked. She mixed her legs and feet with his, and pressed her bum back into his cock, which though soft, moved slightly as if it could be called back to duty immediately.

"This is why we talked  _before_  I made love to you, Carrie. What do you think happens?"

"I think we have a mad love affair," she said, honestly.

"That's right," Quinn said. "It's been my dream, you know."

Carrie was beginning to realize it had been her dream, too, and she almost got the words out. But not quite, because a moment later, she slipped back into a deep, satisfied sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

Quinn woke with a start, realized his arms were still around something soft and warm, something beautiful. He closed his eyes again and settled back down, anxious not to wake her yet.  _Carrie_.

He put his nose in her hair, smelled her. God, but she smelled good. Her own soft scent, some nice shampoo, and their sex. She and he, they had finally…. Good Christ. He could hardly take it in. She had actually sat and listened to him, she'd seemed to understand. That this was not something he could just turn off, that this was something more concrete. That it was something meaningful to him, something of paramount importance. He'd said everything he could to prepare her. He wanted her to understand that his feelings about her would not just go away. It was more concentrated, more intense than that. He'd been waiting too long, he'd wanted too much. He hoped to God that when she woke up, she'd feel the same. She wouldn't be the first person to have a change of heart on the morning after.

He cast an eye towards the windows. By the angle of sunlight, it was about 2 in the afternoon. Their 12 hours of allotted bliss were almost over. He felt like he needed to make the most of it. Who the fuck knew what was coming next? Their lives were a blur of spycraft, fear, responsibility, painful decisions, and mayhem. He only hoped they could somehow carve out time for intimacy – and that she would still want to. He was openly fearful, in his heart, that her acceptance of his attention was just desire and lust, and that it would all evaporate in the open air, when seen in retrospect. It meant everything to Quinn, but he wasn't sure about Carrie. Nobody was ever sure about Carrie, he told himself. That was part of the fascination. But, his lover's heart feared The Drone Queen. He hoped his lovemaking could put that persona aside for good, and bring out the warmth and true loving nature Carrie really embodied. At least when she's with me, he thought. Well, he could only try.

They were lying spooned together, on their left sides. He had discovered in his few nights with her that this was her preferred sleeping position. Fine with him, he'd slept in ditches and pillowed his head on a rock before. Whatever she liked was okay, as long as it involved her touching him, somehow. He moved a stealthy hand down her belly, where it had been recently cupping a firm breast. Slid it down, explored the territory around her navel for a moment. Slow, careful, not wanting to wake her, his hand slid further south. His left arm was under her neck and the pillow, reaching forward. He bent his left elbow and closed that arm over her chest, catching one of her arms in the process. She still didn't stir.

His fingers slid into her outer lips, touching gently, one on either side, then pressed inward, and started to slowly circle. Finding her center. She sighed, moved around a bit, rousing. He tightened his left arm, keeping her still, gently held her there, and increased the pressure he was applying with his fingers. She was wet from before, and getting wetter fast. His cock stood at the ready, but this time, he'd make sure she went first.

"Shhhhhh," he warned, "Don't wake up. Just come in my arms," he whispered huskily.

Carrie didn't open her eyes, but moaned. He hoped she had the appetite for sex that he did, because if she was truly all-in, then she was in for a wild ride. The years of privation plus his natural drive made him crazily hungry for her, for all the loving he could fit in. He kept the pressure up, increased the intensity slightly. Circled his fingers, working her. She moaned again, pressed her ass back into him.

She writhed a bit, and he threw a leg over her, holding her in his grip, her slit still accessible, pressing back with her hands against his arm, which was folded around her. Carrie sighed, relaxed her body into his. "Oh," she sighed, seeming to search for other words. Not finding them, just grinding herself into his hand.

Quinn felt a surge of victory as he pressed more firmly, listening for her sighs, trying to calibrate his touch to what he thought she'd like. He clutched her to him, his face in her shoulder, his nose right in her hair, right behind the ear.

"Don't wake up, baby. There's nothing else to do, but come. That's your job, Carrie, can you do that? Can you come for me?"

"Oh, God. Quinn. For fuck's sake," she moaned.

"Exactly. Have your orgasm now, so I can fuck you again." Quinn stated resolutely.

He remembered a time when he was afraid to be near her, that she might somehow see and read his desire, and reject him. He remembered when she had been someone he'd been careful not to touch, because he'd known that it would be too electric, too charged, and he'd be miserable for a day, knowing that she'd be unaware, lying in bed, and there he'd be, masturbating again, because he'd been in close contact with her. That he was here with her, now, in this way, was still almost beyond imagining.

She was reaching the end, he could tell. Eyes closed, her breathing was ragged, she pushed back into him. His educated fingers continued to bring her up, forward, bring her to the verge. She was almost there.

"Oh, God, Quinn," she moaned, "Oh…." She tapered off into a litany of moans, thrusting her ass back at his cock, breathing deeply and hard. Quinn kept the pressure up as she came.

"There, Carrie, there. Good girl," he sighed, continuing to stimulate her at a slower pace. In this way, he maintained her orgasm for as long as possible, waited for her cries to taper off to heavy breathing, silence. Then, he turned her on her belly. Rising above, he used his legs to spread hers. Leaning over, taking his weight on his arms, he let the head of his prick be the only thing that touched her slit, at first. She was so wet, so ready, waiting for him. Like in all of his dreams.

He sighed her name, pressing himself into her. He couldn't think of any other words. Her name was the only word that made sense in the known universe. Lying face down, head to the side, she was positioned as in so many of his fantasies. His cock entered her slowly, and her wetness allowed his languorous advance. He filled her, moved himself forward to be completely inside of her, covered her body, and heard her gasp. He began a slow rhythm, deliberately slow. She felt so fucking good, it was all he could do not to come immediately.

Their bodies moved together, as Carrie pushed back fractionally at every thrust he made. He wanted to not injure her further, knowing his roughness earlier in the day had rendered her sore. He thrust gently at first, waiting to hear if she'd object, make a sound that indicated pain. She didn't. Quite the opposite: her soft moans were encouraging. He continued thrusting on, increasing the intensity of his strokes, moving deeper, fucking her faster. Pushing their way into oblivion together. He was consumed, gripped by the terrible need to have her and keep her. He held her tightly, and whispered into her ear.

"This is how I've wanted you," he hissed, thrusting more deeply. His body stiffened and as his orgasm approached, he clenched her more tightly. He buried his face in her hair, then kissed her neck, and with his lips in contact with her skin, his mouth open, tasting her, he came. A groan emerged from his lips, an incoherent sound that indicated his overpowering daze. Her hips were rocking, she was pushing back at him, her breath seizing in her throat, and just as Quinn came, she gave an anguished squeak as she climaxed again with him.

His orgasm spent, he relaxed and moved back, and getting his weight off her, he lay to one side. Her back still heaved up and down, as her breathing slowed, and her eyes were closed. Goddamn, but that position blew his mind, and seemed to blow hers. Surrender for the female, and his body covered hers, like a homemade shelter, exactly what he'd designed for her, to keep her from harm. The feeling of true possession. She was so tight, he thought. Just like in his dreams. No, better. Quinn stroked her hair gently back from her face, smoothed a hand over her shoulder and arm.

"Oh, God, Quinn," she sighed, still so tired, and now spent, as well.

"Go back to sleep," he suggested. "We have time."

"Oh," she sighed, so completely depleted of energy that she couldn't think of a better response. "OK, then," she finished, then proceeded to start to fall asleep again, Quinn's seed still leaking out of her.

She turned on her side, and Quinn snuggled his body up against hers. He felt cold, and thinking she might feel the same, he covered them both completely with his thick bedcovers. His arms went around her again, and Quinn's eyes closed. For him, sleep didn't come as easily, tired though he was.

Carrie was an enigma to him still, as she was to most people. It was difficult to say what the way ahead looked like. If she was really all-in, did that mean they would be lovers only while they were in Pakistan? Would she want to be with him, if they were ever transferred back to the US? And although she acted like it had never happened, Christ, back home, she had a kid. He thought carefully about it. What it would be like to be the stepfather to Carrie and Brody's child? The idea was bizarre, intriguing. He didn't consider himself father material, not in lots of ways. But maybe there were hidden depths to him, and maybe with Carrie, he'd feel differently. He had no family to speak of, but what would her family think of him? In any kind of real future together, they'd all have to meet, be together, at least sometimes. It was intimidating to think of.

And that was all best-case. He wondered what he'd do if she woke up and felt regrets, went back to the way things were before, as if it had never happened? He'd experienced morning-after freakouts himself, and it was no picnic for either party. He hoped to God there had been some feeling in what she'd said before. It had sounded like it. But it was hard to say.

But then, Carrie loved fiercely. That was one of the attractions. She wasn't weak-minded, and when she decided she wanted Brody, nothing in the world could dissuade her from trying to save him, free him, make sure his name was cleared of the bombing. He hoped she felt even half as intensely for him. If she did, he'd have nothing to worry about.

But worry he did. He had too much invested for this to be a random fling. He closed his eyes, tried to rest, and reflected on the day. At least it had been a good day.

At some point, he realized, he was going to blurt out that he loved her. He wondered what she'd make of that?

We'll find out soon enough, he thought. With that, Quinn was able to sleep a little, too.


	12. Chapter 12

Quinn woke, as Carrie's warmth slid away from him on the bed. He was curious, almost fearful, to see what she'd do next. He was concerned she'd get dressed, sneak out, and try to pretend it never happened. He was gratified to see that she only moved towards the bathroom, and then shut the door. He lay there in anxiety, watching the door and waiting for her to emerge. And, he thought worriedly, he'd see what she had in mind.

It was almost 5:00 PM, and they had been holed up in his apartment, making love and sleeping, for almost 12 hours. He knew Lockhart was expecting them both to re-emerge into the Ops room to assist with the prisoner exchange planning in the next few hours, and that they'd both have to face what happened, stand up, dress themselves and try to act like responsible case officers. Quinn had no idea what the next few days were going to be like, but it was likely that they were going to be fraught with distress, fear, and continuous worry about Saul's well-being. He had a lot of questions about the role of the Pakistanis, and still had his mind on Khan, and his handling of Carrie the night of her replaced medicine. "Handling" was one word for it, he thought jealously, his stomach rolling over. There were more than a few loose ends to be tied up, and he was most concerned about the way the prisoner exchange was going to go. The way the Pakistanis were only partially transparent with their motives worried him, and Khan wasn't even the worst of them. As pissed as he was at Khan, Tasneem Qureshi was worse, as she gave off a vicious, secretive vibe that set every one of his hackles on end. His instincts as an operative told him she was up to no good. If anything, Tasneem was pure evil on wheels. But honestly, none of it compared to the turmoil he felt, while wondering if Carrie would come out, walk over to him, and kiss him, or get dressed and bolt out of there.  _Fuck_.

The bathroom door re-opened after a minute, and Carrie emerged, with one of his huge bath towels shyly wrapped around her torso. Quinn made no pretense of being asleep, and sat up in bed. He patted the spot next to him on the bed, a serious look on his face. Carrie visibly gulped, then came to sit down next to him.

Quinn wanted to be straightforward, and forestall any sneakiness or bullshit, but he was suddenly tongue-tied: he had no idea how to start. He knew it was important to try, though. They had to get used to talking to each other. As he had predicted, things felt different now, even more so than the intensity of last night, when he had made her come and she'd slept in his arms. He put a hand out, stroking up and down her upper arm, made no attempt to disrobe her. He approved of the modesty, frankly, because it suggested she wasn't manic in any way. She sighed.

"Crazy day, huh," she said finally, looking at her toenails. He was glad she had broken the silence, and given him something to respond to.

"I guess you could look at it that way, Carrie," Quinn responded gently. "Or, from my perspective, it's the least crazy I've felt in the last few years."

Carrie turned to look him full in the eye. Quinn looked sated, satisfied, confident. She wished she felt completely the same. But she was different, she had a condition.

Quinn continued, "I meant everything I said this morning, you know." He continued to hold her with a self-assured gaze.

"I'm glad. But, I'm worried," she said quietly, "that I'll fuck things up. I usually do. I mean, look at my past relationships. Brody. Random other people, you know? And I don't know what to do next. About us. Whatever 'us' means," she finished, shaking her head.

Quinn sat up beside her. He was not similarly modest, and Carrie couldn't resist a look down at him – he was pretty big, even when soft. It stirred her loins again, remembering. He put his arm around her, as if he was trying to keep her from running off. God knew, she kind of felt like running off.

"Well," he said, "I can't say I didn't expect this. And I'm not entirely sure myself, about what happens next. But I want you to think about the past few years, for a minute."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. What has it been like, knowing I was there for you? I have been, you know."

Carrie gave a smile, a real one, weak though it was.

"Well," she mused, "once, you fucking shot me."

He squirmed uncomfortably. "That was a direct order. And I still feel horrible about it."

She put her hand on his knee. "That's comforting to know," she said. "But what did you mean, the last two years. 'Knowing you were there.' Is that how it's going to be? I mean, I don't know what the fuck happens, or how to be with another person. What do we even do, move in together? I don't fucking know. I feel, I don't know," she said distressedly, "I feel sort of emotionally broken. Or like I was never whole to begin with."

Quinn sighed. "Fuck, Carrie. So do I. I'll be figuring it out, right along with you. I don't know everything about what's coming. I can't see the future. I don't know where either of us is going, or what we're doing. I don't know where we'll be in the next two weeks, actually. But I know I'll feel the same about you then, and in two months. And in two years." Oh God, he thought. Here it comes.

Carrie slid off the bed, knelt in front of Quinn, looked him straight in the eye with her hands on his knees. "And how is that, exactly?"

Quinn put his hands over hers. "I tried to tell you this morning, when you turned up on my bed. But I guess I don't know how to talk about it, so I talked around it." He pulled her up to sit in his lap, her towel slipping so he could get another look at her gorgeous breasts. He held her close. He couldn't say it while looking into her eyes – he was afraid of what he'd see – or  _not_  see. Finally, he blurted it into her neck, as he kissed her there. "I love you. I guess I always have, since I've known you."

He felt her stiffen. The moment had come, scary and real. He couldn't take it back.

She didn't say "I love you," in return. It would have surprised him if she did, but still, his stomach dropped. In fact, she didn't say anything, not at first.

"Quinn, like I said," she sighed. "When it comes to relationships, I feel like… a broken person. I'm not sure I even know what love is." Then she relaxed back into his arms, and the stiffness went out of her. He cradled her. "But I'm not helpless in other ways. I never have been. It's hard for me, you know, to depend on someone."

"I know you're not helpless," Quinn said, sharply. "You went back into a warehouse after Abu Nazir with a piece of pipe, for Christ's sake. That's anything but weak. It's also one of the reasons you need someone to be with, to recharge with. To give you a safe place to be, when you do feel worn out. Nobody's strong all the time," he finished reasonably.

Carrie put her head on his shoulder. "I… felt good today. All day. And I feel safe with you, Quinn. I hope that can be good enough for now. Until I figure out what the fuck I want, and who I am. With you." Quinn kept kissing her neck, stroking her back and arms in a way that would delay them if he kept it up much longer. She had to admit, he understood how to make a woman feel pleasure. He had been devoted to her for a long time. And he wasn't trying to put a ball and chain on her. He just wanted to be together when they could.

"There's nothing about you that's not good enough for me," he said. Her stomach stirred, her heart turned over. It was more romantic than a simple "I love you," but she doubted he was trying to be manipulative. Whatever else Quinn had been, he'd not been a "player", into mind games, or flirty in any empty way. In fact, she realized, she'd not had a clear idea of how he felt, until she reciprocated some of his feelings, and he knew she cared too. I guess that's how it works, she thought. Maybe there is a way through this, together.

"Wow," Carrie said, and gave a little laugh. "I hope I don't disappoint you." She looked down, seemingly embarrassed.

He took her off his lap, set her on her feet, and stood before her. Using both hands, he gripped her shoulders and turned her to look into his eyes.

"You couldn't," he said simply, intensely. "You  _couldn't_  disappoint me. Just  _be_  with me, Carrie. And we can figure it out, one step at a time. I hope you want to," he finished sincerely, looking a bit hangdog.

She pulled him close, and he hugged her back fiercely. "I think I do," she breathed. "But you might need to be patient with me, sometimes. I can be, well, frustrating."

Quinn laughed. "Oh, no shit, Carrie. You can be frustrating? Really? In other news, water is wet, and the sun is hot." He reached down, and smacked her ass. "Come on, we still have time for a quick shower together, before we get dressed and get back downstairs."

She held on, for just a moment. Then let go. "I'm beginning to understand. I mean, how patient you really are. I guess I should know that by now. Yeah, let's go. I want you to scrub my back."

Quinn took her wrist, led her towards the bathroom. "Carrie," he said, "I'm your man."

"So it would seem," she said, grinning up at him, as he turned on the hot water.


End file.
